&144U4A4*  m 


\ 


EXOTICS; 


ATTEMPTS  TO   DOMESTICATE  THEM. 


J.  F.  C.  AND  L.  C. 


"  EXOTIC,  n.    A  plant,  shrub,  or  tree,  not  native ;  a  plant  introduced 
from  a  foreign  country."  —  Webster. 


BOSTON: 
JAMES   R.   OSGOOD   AND   COMPANY, 

Late  Ticknor  &  Fields,  and  Fields,  Osgood,  &  Co. 
1875. 


COPYRIGHT,  1875. 
BY  JAMES  R.  OSGOOD  &  CO. 


UNIVERSITY  PRESS:  WELCH,  BIGELOW,  &  Co., 
CAMBRIDGE. 


-ps 

7^99 


Cesium,  non  animam,  mutant,  qui  trans  mare  currunt." 


THESE  poems,  visitors  from  other  climes, 

Between  whose  homes  and  ours  an  ocean  rolls, 

Have  changed  their  language,  metre,  rhythm,  rhymes  ; 
But  —  let  us  hope  —  they  have  not  changed  their  souls. 


.10-35 


PREFACE. 


MOST  poetical  translations  resemble  the  re- 
verse side  of  a  piece  of  Gobelin  tapestry. 
The  figures  and  colors  are  there,  but  the  charm  is 
wanting. 

But  what  is  the  use  of  making  a  translation  at  all, 
unless  you  can  infuse  into  it  some  of  that  element 
which  makes  the  original  poem  immortal?  If  the 
essential  spirit,  which  is  the  attraction  in  it,  has  evapo- 
rated, of  what  advantage  is  the  residuum  ?  You  pre- 
sent us  with  an  English  version  of  an  ode  of  Horace 
or  a  song  of  Goethe ;  and  we  can  only  say,  "  If  this 
were  all,  Horace  and  Goethe  would  not  be  remem- 
bered ten  years.  Why  is  it,  then,  that  they  are  im- 
mortal ? " 

The  reason  why  we  who  translate  are  not  aware 
of  our  own  failures  is  perhaps  this,  —  that  we  are  so 
enchanted  with  the  original  poem  that  we  associate 
this  pleasure  with  our  own  version.  A  translator 

5 


PREFACE. 

does  not  see  the  baldness  and  prosaic  character  of 
his  work,  because  every  word  suggests  to  him  the 
beauty  which  it  is  meant  to  represent.  So  a  person 
travelling  through  picturesque  scenery  sometimes 
makes  rude  sketches  of  what  he  sees,  which  convey 
to  others  no  idea  of  the  landscape ;  but  to  him 
they  are  associated  with  the  light,  the  color,  the 
perspective,  the  ineffable  charm  of  nature,  and  so 
are  valuable  to  him  as  souvenirs  of  the  scene. 

A  successful  translation  must  produce  in  the 
reader  unacquainted  with  the  original  the  same 
sort  of  feeling  which  that  conveys.  The  ideal  of  a 
translation  would  be  one  which,  if  the  original  were 
lost,  would  remain  forever  as  immortal.  Without 
any  thought  of  it  as  a  translation,  it  should  give 
us  so  much  pleasure  in  itself  as  to  live  a  life  of  its 
own  in  literature.  Is  this  impossible  ?  We  have 
some  examples  to  prove  that  it  can  be  done. 

Perhaps,  of  all  authors,  Horace  is  the  most  diffi- 
cult to  render  into  a  modern  language.  If  you  trans- 
late him  literally,  the  whole  life  of  the  ode  is  gone.  If 
you  give  a  free  version,  hoping  to  retain  this  vitality, 
you  lose  the  classic,  sharp-cut,  and  concise  expres- 
sion, where  each  word  has  the  beauty  and  value  of 
a  gem ;  and  you  offer  us  a  pleasant  poem,  belonging 
to  the  modern  romantic  school  of  literature.  Yet 

6 


PREFACE. 

even  Horace  has  been  sometimes  adequately  trans- 
lated. The  following  lines  in  Dryden's  version  of 
Book  III.  carmen  29,  which  is  justly  said  by  Theo- 
dore Martin  to  be  finer  than  the  original,  shows  how 
a  great  poet  can  re-create  in  another  language  the 
best  life  of  his  author.  It  has  all  the  energy,  concise- 
ness, and  perfect  expression  of  the  original,  with  even 
more  of  freedom  and  fire. 

"  Happy  the  man,  and  happy  he  alone, 
He  who  can  call  to-day  his  own ; 
He  who,  secure  within,  can  say, 
'To-morrow,  do  thy  worst,  for  I  have  lived  to-day. 

Be  fair  or  foul,  or  rain  or  shine, 
The  joys  I  have  possessed,  in  spite  of  fate,  are  mine. 

Not  heaven  itself  upon  the  past  has  power, 
But  what  has  been,   has  been,   and   I    have   had  my 

hour ! ' " 

The  rest  of  the  translation  is  almost  or  quite  as 
fine  as  this.  It  has  a  grander  swell  and  more  free- 
dom of  movement  than  the  original,  while  it  faithfully 
reproduces  the  thought,  the  tone,  and  the  spirit  of 
the  Horatian  ode. 

Dryden  was  a  great  poet ;  but  men  of  less  genius 
than  he  have  sometimes  met  with  success  in  trans- 
lating Horace.  Take,  as  an  example,  Professor  Con- 
ington's  version  of  Book  I.  carmen  24,  "Quis  desi- 

7 


PREFACE. 

derio."  The  first  few  lines  are  not  equal  to  Horace ; 
but  those  which  follow  certainly  partake  of  the  qual- 
ity of  the  original. 

"And  sleeps  he  then  the  heavy  sleep  of  death, 

Quintilius?     Piety,  twin  sister  dear 
Of  Justice  !  naked  Truth  !  unsullied  Faith  ! 

When  will  ye  find  his  peer  ? 
By  many  a  good  man  wept,  Quintilius  dies ; 

By  none  than  you,  my  Virgil,  trulier  wept." 

The  genuine  sense  of  the  translator  appears  in 
the  turn  given  to  the  last  line  in  the  word  "  trulier." 
The  same  comparative  appears  in  the  original,  in 
a  different  word,  "flebilior," — 

"Nulli  flebilior  quam  tibi,  Virgili." 

But  the  same  effect  is  produced  by  "trulier,"  in 
English,  which  is  conveyed  by  "flebilior"  in  the 
Latin.  This  is  a  touch  of  genius. 

A  poem  is  often  like  a  gem.  An  ode  of  Horace 
or  a  song  of  Goethe  has  a  flash  like  that  which 
comes  from  the  sharp  facet  of  a  diamond.  Simply 
to  render  the  thought  is  only  to  imitate  the  chemist, 
whose  analysis  transforms  the  diamond  into  charcoal. 
In  English  prose  the  magic  of  Horace  and  Goethe 
disappear.  But  in  another  class  of  poems,  where 

8 


PREFACE. 

the  interest  centres  in  the  spirit,  thought,  and 
imagery,  a  prose  version  is  often  the  best.  After 
all  the  attempts  made  upon  Homer  and  Dante,  the 
most  faithful  prose  is  perhaps  that  which  brings  us 
nearest  to  these  majestic  authors. 

A  portrait  is  really  a  translation.  It  is  an  attempt 
at  translating  a  human  being  into  another  language,  — 
from  life  to  art.  Most  portraits  are  therefore  failures, 
and  have  little  interest,  except  to  those  who  are  famil- 
iar with  the  original.  But  he  who  has  seen  portraits 
by  the  great  masters  —  by  Rubens  and  Titian,  by  Rem- 
brandt and  Vandyke,  by  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  and 
Gainsborough  —  is  astonished  to  find  these  paintings 
as  interesting  as  the  ideal  works  of  Raffaelle  or  Cor- 
reggio.  Those  masters  were  able  to  penetrate  into 
the  depths  of  the  soul,  and  they  gave  on  their  immor- 
tal canvas  the  concentrated  history  of  a  human  life. 
That  which  was  deepest  in  the  man,  his  quintessential 
spirit,  is  here  fully  explained  to  us.  As  it  takes  the 
great  master  to  paint  a  perfect  portrait,  so  it  takes 
the  great  poet  to  perfectly  translate  a  poem. 

The  best  poetical  translations  are  usually  made  by 
those  who  are  goets  themselves.  Coleridge,  in  his 
Wallenstein,  was  able  to  introduce  Schiller  worthily 
to  English  readers.  Some  passages  in  the  version 
surpass  the  original.  I  think  there  is  nothing  in  the 

9 


PREFACE. 

German  play  quite  as  good  as  those  lines  in  which 
Wallenstein  laments  the  death  of  Max,  which  close 
thus : — 

"  For  O,  he  stood  beside  me  like  my  youth, 
Transformed  for  me  the  Real  into  a  dream, 
Clothing  the  palpable  and  the  familiar 
With  golden  exhalations  of  the  dawn. 
Whatever  fortunes  wait  my  future  toils, 
The  Beautiful  is  vanished,  and  returns  not." 

When  Dryden,  Coleridge,  Shelley,  render  a  foreign 
poet  into  their  own  language,  the  stranger  has  received 
his  naturalization-papers,  and  becomes  henceforth  a 
citizen  of  the  English  Parnassus.  He  has  obtained 
the  freedom  of  the  city. 

A  test  question  to  decide  the  success  or  failure  of 
a  translation  might  be  this,  "  Can  you  recite  your 
version  aloud,  in  the  presence  of  men  of  taste,  so 
as  to  give  them  real  pleasure?"  If  the  poem  is 
worth  repeating  aloud  for  its  own  sake,  and  gives 
satisfaction,  —  that  is  enough. 

The  difficulty  of  rendering  German  lyrical  poetry 
into  English  is  not  so  great  as  that  of  making  ade- 
quate versions  from  Greek  or  Latin  authors.  These 
modern  languages  are  sisterly,  and  lend  each  other 
a  hand.  Accordingly,  we  have  some  excellent  Eng- 


PREFACE. 

lish  poems,  by  such  translators  as  Hedge,  Furness, 
Brooks,  Dwight,  Leland,  and  others,  which  deserve 
to  live  a  life  of  their  own.  But  there  is  room  for 
more. 

The  versions  into  German  out  of  English  poetry 
are  often  admirably  good.  We  have  seen  an  excel- 
lent one  of  Poe's  "  Raven,"  of  which  this  is  the  first 
stanza :  — 

"  Mitternacht  war  's,  stiirmisch,  schaurig,  als  ich  mild'  und 

matt  und  traurig 
Ueber  manch'  ein  friih'res  Streben  hatt'  gegriibelt  bin 

und  her ; 
Schlummern  —  schlafen  fast  —  ich  mochte,  als  mit  einem 

mal  es  pochte, 
Als  ob  draussen  leise  pochte,  leise  pochte  irgend  wer  — 

Das  wird  's  sein,  und  sonst  nicht  mehr." 

In  an  old  number  of  Eraser's  Magazine  there  is  a 
rendering  into  German  of  Moore's  song 

"  O  the  days  are  gone  when  Beauty  bright 
My  heart's  chain  wove," 

which  seems  to  meet  this  requisition.  Here  is  a 
stanza :  — 

"  Ach  !  die  Tage  sind  hin,  als  der  Schonheitsmacht, 
Mein  Herz  erfuhr, 


PREFACE. 

Als  mein  Lebenstraum  von  der  Friih'  bis  zur  Nacht 

War  Liebe  nur ! 
Wohl  Hoffnung  bliiht, 
Wohl  Tage  sieht 
Mein  Aug,  einst  mild  und  rein 
Doch  stets  wird  der  Liebe  Jugendtraum 

Das  Schonste  sein  ! 
Ach  !  stets  wird  der  Liebe  Jugendtraum 
Das  Schonste  sein  !  " 

What  Matthew  Arnold  says  of  the  qualities  re- 
quired to  translate  Homer  may  be  generalized  as  a 
rule  for  all  translation.  He  demands,  first  of  all,  that 
one  "  be  penetrated  by  a  sense  of  the  qualities  of  his 
author."  His  criticisms  on  the  translations  of  Homer 
by  Pope,  Cowper,  Newman,  and  Chapman  are  all 
founded  on  this  primary  requisition.  Each  of  them 
has  failed,  according  to  him.  Cowper  has  failed  be- 
cause he  has  not  reproduced  the  rapidity  of  Homer  ; 
Pope,  because  he  does  not  give  his  plainness  and 
directness  of  language ;  Chapman,  because  he  loses 
his  plainness  and  directness  of  ideas ;  and  Newman, 
because  he  does  not  appreciate  the  nobleness  of  his 
author. 

As  each  of  the  writers  of  whose  work  we  have 
here  imported  specimens  has  qualities  of  his  own, 
we  have  probably  sometimes  failed  in  finding  and 


PREFACE. 

reproducing  them.  We  willingly  leave  to  our  read- 
ers the  pleasure  of  discovering  these  failures.  A 
French  writer  says  that  it  is  the  business  of  critics 
to  watch  authors,  not  that  of  authors  to  watch  critics. 
We  therefore  fall  back  on  the  Horatian  valedictory,  — 

"Vive:  vale!     Si  quid  novisti  rectius  istis, 
Candidus  imperti :  si  non,  his  mere  mecum  " ; 

which  may  be  thus  rendered,  — 

"  If  this  book  suits  you,  call  yourself  our  debtor ; 
If  not,  take  pains,  and  give  us  something  better." 


CONTENTS. 


I.     WAS    1ST   SCHWER   ZU   VERBERGEN?      Goethe. 

THE  RULE  WITH  NO  EXCEPTIONS 

II.    DIE  BEIDEN  ENGEL.     Geibel. 

THE  TWO  ANGELS 

Ill     PUISQU'ICI  TOUTE  AME.     Victor  Hugo. 

"  BECAUSE  " 

IV.    LIEBESZAUBER.    Burger. 

THE  WITCH 

V.   LIEGT  DER  HEISSB  SOMMER.    Heitit. 

CHANGE  OF  SEASONS 31 

VI.   UEBER  DIE  BERGE.    Heine. 

LOVE'S  MATINS 32 

VII.   MORGENS  STEH'  ICH  AUF  UND  FRAGE.     Heine. 

HOPE  DEFERRED 33 

VIII.   DIE  ROSE,  DIE  LILIE,  DIE  TAUBE,  DIE  SONNE.    Heine. 

IXJVE'S  RESUME 34 

IX   GOLDNE  BRUCKEN  SEIEN.    Geibel. 

BRIDGES  AND  WINGS 35 

X.    DA  DIE  STUNDE  KAM.     Oster-wald. 

THE  TRUE  SPRING 36 

XI.   ICH  GLAUBTE  DIE  SCHWALBE. 

WINTER  IN  SPRING 37 

XII.     DlE   BLAUEN   VEILCHEN   DER   AfiUGELEIN.      Heine. 

FROST  IN  THE  HEART 38 


CONTENTS. 

XIII.  WlR   HABEN   VIEL   FDR   ElNANDER   GEFUHLT.      Heine. 

CHILI>PLAY 39 

XIV.  AUF  MEINER  HERZLIEBSTEN  AEUGELEIN.    Heine. 

THE  DIFFICULTY 40 

XV.    WAS    ICH    BOS  SEI,    FRAGST    DU    MICH  ?      Kiickcrt. 

A  FOOLISH  QUESTION 41 

XVI.   LIEB'    LIEBCHHN,    LEG'S    HANDCHEN    AUF'S    HERZE 
MEIN.     Heine. 
THE  CARPENTER 43 

XVII.     Lo   HAST    DU   GANZ   UND  GAR   VERGESSEN.      Heine. 

ALAS! 43 

XVIII.     SEIT    DIE   LlEBSTE  WAR   ENTFERNT.      Heine. 

TO-DAY  AND  TO-MORROW 44 

XIX.   EBBE  UND  FLUTH.    F.  Dingehtedt. 

EBB  AND  FLOW 45 

XX.   ICH  HAB'  IM  TRAUM  GEWEINET.    Heine. 

THE  BITTER  WAKING 47 

XXI.     O  WAR  ES  EINE  ScHULD  NUR  WAS  UNS  TRENNTE.    Geibel. 

THE  IMPASSABLE  GULF 48 

XXII.   O  DARUM  IST  DER  LENZ  so  scHON.     Geibel. 

THE  WINE  OF  LIFE 49 

XXIII.  DIE  STILLE  WASSERROSE.     Geibel. 

THE  WATER-LILY         ......    50 

XXIV.  AUF  DEM  WASSER.     Geibel. 

ON  THE  WATER 51 

XXV.   O  FRUHLINGSZEIT  ! 

A  SPRING  SONG 52 

XXVI.   VOGLEIN  WOHIN  so  SCHNELL?    Geibel. 

SPRING  THOUGHTS  IN  ITALY        .  .        -54 

XXVII.     ViJGLEIN  WOHIN   SO  SCHNELL?  (2.)      Geibel. 

ANOTHER  VERSION 56 

XXVIII.     GRUBS'    AUS   DER   FERNE.      Riickert. 

GREETING  FROM  FAR  AWAY          .        .        .        .57 
16 


CONTENTS. 
XXIX.  WARUM  WILLST  DO  ANDRE  FRAGEN?    Riickert. 

"LOVE   DOTH    TO   HER   EYES   REPAIR"          .  .      C'O 

XXX.   WOHL  LAG'  ICH  EINST  IN  GRAM  UND  SCHMERZ.  Geibel. 

TEARS 61 

XXXI.   EIN  OBDACH  GEGEN  STURM  UND  REGEN.    Riickert 

WER  WENIG  SUCHT,  DER  FINDET  VIEL,    .        .    62 

XXXII.     MlNNELIED. 

WINTER  SUNSHINE 63 

XXXIII.  C'ETAIT  EN  AVRIL,  LE  DiMANCHE.    Ed.  Pciilleron. 

A  REMINISCENCE 64 

XXXIV.  DIE  ZUFRIEDENEN.     Uhland. 

CONTENTED 65 

XXXV.   NUN  IST  DER  TAG  GESCHIEDEN.    Geibel. 

THE  NIGHT-BLOOMING  FLOWER        .        .        .66 

XXXVI.   LASS  ANDRE  NUR  IM  REIGEN.     Geibel. 

To  THE  SILENT  ONE 67 

XXXVII.   DIE  LIEBE  SPRACH.    Riickert. 

WHAT  LOVE  SAID 68 

XXXVIII.     DU    FRAGST   MICH,    LIEBE    KLEINE.      Geibel. 

LOST  SUNSHINE 69 

XXXIX.   O,  SIEH'  MICH  NICHT  so  LACHELND  AN  !    Geibel. 

THE  SUNSET  HOUR 71 

XL.   WIE  ES  GEHT.     Geibel. 

HOW   IT   HAPPENS 73 

XLI.  THE  PILGRIMAGE  TO  KEVLAAR.    Heine. 

"AM  FENSTER  STAND  DIE  MUTTER"     •        .    75 

XLII.    LINES  TO  M.  DU  PERRIER.     Malherbe. 

BEREAVEMENT 79 

XLIII.    KINDERGOTTESDIENST.    Karl  Gerok. 

THE  CHILDREN'S  CHURCH         .        .        .        .82 

XLIV.   STREB'  IN  GOTT  DF.IN  SEIN  zu  SCHLICHTEN.   Geibel 

"THE  PERFECT  WHOLE"          .        .        .        .84 


CONTENTS. 


XLV.   "THE  DEVIL  is  A  FOOL."    Herder      .       .        .        .85 

XLVI.    "UNSER  ZUVERSICHT."     Theod.  Korner. 

OUR  CONFIDENCE 87 

XLVI  I.   THE  LAST  TEN  OF  THE  FOURTH  REGIMENT.  Jules  Mosen.  89 

XLVI  1 1.    URWORTE,  ORPHISCH.     Goethe. 

ORPHIC  SAVINGS gi 

XLIX.   EPILOG  zu  SCHILLER'S  GLOCKE.    Goetlie. 

IN  MEMORY  OF  SCHILLER 93 

L.  THE  GONDOLA.    Goethe 98 

LI.   MODERN  CATHOLICS  :  A  PARABLE.    Goethe       .        •      99 

LI  I.   THEKLA,  EINE  GEISTERSTIMME.    Schiller. 

THEKLA  :  A  SPIRIT'S  VOICE      .       .        .        .    101 

LI  1 1.  THE  WAY  AND  THE  LIFE.    De  Wette        .        .        .103 

L1V.     SOLVITUR   ACRIS   HYEMS.      (I.  iv.)      Horace. 

AN  ITALIAN  SPRING 105 

LV.   VIDES  UT  ALTA.    (I.  ix.)    Horace. 

AN  ITALIAN  WINTER 107 

LVI.     QUIS   MULTA  GRACILIS.      (I.  V.)      Horace. 

A  COQUETTE  OF  OLD  ROME      ....    109 

LVII.   PERSICOS  GDI.     (I.  38  )    Horace. 

A  SIMPLE  FEAST no 

LVI  1 1.   LATIN  PRAYER  OF  MARY,  QUEEN  OF  SCOTS. 

WITH   A   TRANSLATION Ill 

LIX.   ^NEADUM  GENETRIX.     (De  R.  N.,  Lib.  I.)    Lttcretivs. 

INVOCATION  TO  BEAUTY  AND  LOVE  .        .        .112 

LX.   ILLAM  QUIDQUID  AGIT.     Tibullus. 

A  BEAUTY  OF  ANCIENT  ROME  .        .        .        .116 

LXI.   SOMNE  VENI.     Lord  Lyttleton. 

To  SLEEP .118 


LXII.    PROSPERA  NON  L^TAM  FECEKE. 
"ERECTUS,  NON  ELATUS" 


CONTENTS. 

LXIII.    SSUFISMUS,  RABIA.     Tholuck. 

THE  MOHAMMEDAN  SAINTS    ....  120 

LXIV.     DSCHELADEDDIN.       Tholuck. 

"HE  WHO  ASKS,  RECEIVES"  .  .  .  .121 
LXV.  THE  CALIPH  AND  SATAN.  Thol-uck  .  .  .123 
LXVI.  MOSES  AND  THE  WORM.  Herder  .  .  .127 

FROM  THE  GULISTAN.     Saadi. 

LXVII.   THE  USE  OF  WEALTH 129 

LXVIII.   KNOWLEDGE  AND  ACTION 129 

LXIX.    EASTERN  HUMANITY 130 

LXX.   "TIMEO  DANAOS" 130 

LXXI.   To  PHILANTHROPISTS 131 

LXX  1 1.   A  LOVER'S  ECONOMY 131 

LXXIII.    SLOW  AND  SURE I32 

LXXIV.   UNPRODUCTIVE  INDUSTRY 132 

LXXV.   WHAT  THE  WORLDLY-WISE  ARE  FOR  .        .        .  133 
LXXVI.   WARNING  TO  OFFICE-SEEKERS       .        .        .        .133 

LXXVII.     HOW   TO   GET   RID   OF   BORES 134 

LXXVIII.    "CELA  DEPEND" 134 

LXXIX.    UNSUITABLE  BOUNTY 135 

LXXX.    MAN  THE  INSTRUMENT  OF  GOD'S  WILL      .        .  136 

LXXXI.    RESULTS  OF  A  BAD  REPUTATION  ....  136 

LXXXII.   JUDGE  NOT 137 

LXXX  I II.    GENEROSITY I38 

LXXXIV.    SELF-SATISFACTION 138 

LXXXV.  THE  MOTE  AND  THE  BEAM ,39 

LXXXVI.   LOST  ILLUSIONS i39 

'9 


CONTENTS. 

LXXXVII.   "FACTA,  NON  VERBA" 140 

LXXXVIII.   PEDANTRY 140 

LXXXIX.   BEGINNING  AND  END 140 

XC.  GRASS  AND  ROSES 141 


[NOTE.  —  The  translations  with  the  following  numbers  were  made 
by  L.  C. :  Nos.  n,  15,  23,  24,  25,  26,  27,  28,  30,  31,  32,  36,  37,  38,  39, 
40.  The  remaining  poems  were  translated  by  J.  F.  C.] 


EXOTICS. 


THE   RULE   WITH   NO    EXCEPTIONS. 

TELL  me,  friend,  — as  you  are  bidden,  — 
What  is  hardest  to  be  hidden  ? 
Fire  is  hard.     The  smoke  betrays 
Its  place,  by  day,  —  by  night,  its  blaze. 
I  will  tell,  as  I  am  bidden,  — 
FIRE  is  hardest  to  be  hidden. 

I  will  tell,  as  I  am  bidden ! 
LOVE  is  hardest  to  be  hidden. 
Do  your  best,  you  can't  conceal  it ; 
Actions,  looks,  and  tones  reveal  it. 
I  will  tell,  as  I  am  bidden,  — 
LOVE  is  hardest  to  be  hidden. 

I  will  tell,  as  I  am  bidden  ! 
POETRY  cannot  be  hidden. 
Fire  may  smoulder,  love  be  dead  ; 
But  a  Poem  must  be  read. 
Song  intoxicates  the  Poet ; 
He  will  sing  it,  he  will  show  it. 


THE  RULE   WITH  NO  EXCEPTIONS. 

He  must  show  it,  he  must  sing  it. 
Tell  the  fellow  then  to  bring  it ! 
Though  he  knows  you  can't  abide  it, 
'T  is  impossible  to  hide  it. 
I  will  tell,  as  I  am  bidden,  — 
POEMS  never  can  be  hidden. 


II. 

THE   TWO   ANGELS. 

TWO    blessed    gifts    from    heaven    to  earth    are 
sent, — 

Know'st  thou,  my  heart,  each  sister-angel's  name  ? 
One  is  calm  Friendship,  robed  in  white  content ; 
The  other,  rosy  Love,  with  heart  of  flame. 

Love 's  a  brunette :  her  cheeks  with  fire  are  glowing,  — 
Beauteous  as  spring,  when  roses  blossom  wild. 
Friendship  is  blonde, — a  lily  softly  blowing, — 
Or  moonlight,  in  a  summer  evening  mild. 

Love  is  a  raging  and  tumultuous  ocean, 
Where  waves,  in  thousand  forms,  leap  fast  and  high. 
Friendship,  a  mountain  lake,  where  no  commotion 
Breaks  the  blue  image  of  the  solemn  sky. 

Love  darts  from  heaven  like  lightning,  —  Friendship 

creeps, 

A  slowly  breaking  dawn,  o'er  hill  and  plain. 
Insatiate  Love  demands,  devours,  grasps,  keeps, — 
Friendship  gives  all,  nor  asks  for  aught  again. 
23 


THE    TWO  ANGELS. 

v'  But  happy,  three  times  happy,  is  the  heart 
So  large  that  in  it  both  may  find  a  home ; 
Where  Love  may  come,  and  Friendship  not  depart, 
And  where  the  Lilies  with  the  Roses  bloom.  .. 


III. 


"BECAUSE." 

"DECAUSE  — every  soul 
-•-'       Feels  incessant  desire 
To  give  to  some  other 
Its  fragrance  and  fire ; 

Because  —  all  things  give, 

Below  and  above, 
Their  roses  or  thorns 

To  that  which  they  love ; 

Because  —  May  gives  music 
To  murmuring  streams, 

And  Night,  to  our  pains, 
Gives  nepenthe  in  dreams ; 

Because  —  the  sky  gives 
The  bird  to  the  bower, 

And  morn  drops  its  dew 
In  the  cup  of  the  flower; 


"BECAUSE." 

Because  —  when  the  wave 
Falls  asleep  on  the  strand, 

It  trembles,  and  gives 
A  kiss  to  the  land ;  — 

For  these  reasons,  my  own, 

My  heart  is  inclined 
To  give  thee  the  best 

I  have  in  my  mind. 

I  bring  my  sad  thoughts, 
My  griefs  and  my  fears ; 

Take  these,  as  the  earth  takes 
The  night's  shower  of  tears. 

Of  my  infinite  longing, 
Take,  dearest,  thy  part; 

Take  my  light  and  my  shadow, 
O  child  of  my  heart ! 

Take  the  unalloyed  trust 

Which  our  intercourse  blesses ; 
And  take  all  my  songs, 

With  their  tender  caresses. 

Take  my  soul,  which  moves  on 

Without  sail  or  oar, 
But  pointing  to  thee 

As  its  star  evermore. 
26 


"BECAUSE." 

And  take,  O  my  darling, 
My  precious,  my  own  ! 

This  heart,  which  would  perish, 
Its  love  being  gone. 


IV. 


THE    WITCH. 

CHILD  !  attend  to  what  I  say ; 
Do  not  turn,  nor  look  away. 
Roguish  eye  !  you  must  not  wink, 
I  shall  tell  you  all  I  think. 
Here  !     Hollo !     Don't  look  away. 
Child,  attend  to  what  I  say ! 

You  're  not  homely,  that  is  true  ! 
You  've  an  eye  that 's  clear  and  blue  ; 
Cunning  mouth  and  little  nose 
Have  their  merits,  I  suppose. 
Charming  is  the  word  to  fit  it,  — 
Yes,  you  're  charming  ;  I  admit  it. 

Charming  here  and  charming  there, 
But  no  empress  anywhere. 
No  !  I  cannot  quite  allow 
Beauty's  crown  would  suit  your  brow. 
Charming  there  and  charming  here 
Do  not  make  a  queen,  my  dear. 


THE    WITCH. 

For  I  know  a  hundred  girls, 
Brown  as  berries,  fair  as  pearls, 
Each  of  whom  might  claim  the  prize 
Given  to  loveliest  lips  and  eyes,  — 
Yes,  a  hundred  might  go  in, 
Challenge  you,  sweet  child,  and  win. 

A  hundred  beauties,  did  I  say  ? 
Why,  what  a  number !     Yet  there  may 
A  hundred  thousand  girls  combine 
To  drive  thee  from  this  heart  of  mine  ; 
May  try  together,  try  alone, — 
My  empress  they  cannot  dethrone. 

Whence,  then,  this  imperial  right 
Over  me,  your  own  true  knight  ? 
Like  an  empress  is  your  reign 
In  my  heart,  for  joy  or  pain; 
Death  or  life,  your  royal  right, 
He  accepts,  — your  own  true  knight. 

Roguish  lip  and  roguish  eye, 
Look  at  me,  and  make  reply. 
Witch  !  I  wish  to  understand 
How  I  came  into  your  hand. 
Look  at  me  and  make  reply: 
Tell  me,  roguish  lip  and  eye. 

Up  and  down  I  search  to  see 
The  meaning  of  this  mystery. 
29 


THE    WITCH. 

Tied  so  tight,  by  nothing,  dear? 
Ah !  there  must  be  magic  here  ! 
Up  and  down,  sweet  sorceress,  tell ! 
Where  's  your  wand,  and  what 's  your  spell  ? 


V. 

CHANGE   OF   SEASONS. 

A  LL  seasons  we  may  come  to  seek 
•*"»•     Where  thou,  my  dear  one,  art,  — 
Warm  summer  on  the  little  cheek, 
Cold  winter  in  the  heart. 

But  all  things  change ;  and  so,  my  love, 
These  seasons  shall  depart : 

The  winter  to  thy  cheek  shall  move  ; 
The  summer,  to  thy  heart ! 


VI. 

LOVE'S   MATINS. 

OVER  the  mountain  rises  the  dawning ! 
Lambs  bleat  on  the  distant  plain; 
My  Darling,  my  Lamb,  my  Heaven,  my  Morning , 
How  I  long  to  see  thee  again ! 

Upward  I  look,  and  faintly  I  mutter 
Farewell,  dear  child  !     I  'm  going  from  thee  ! 
—  No  motion  or  flutter  in  curtain  or  shutter ! 
She  is  fast  asleep,  —  is  she  dreaming  of  me  ? 


VII. 


HOPE    DEFERRED. 

EACH  morn  I  mutter,  self-tormenting, 
"Will  he  come  to-day?" 
Every  night  lie  down,  lamenting, 
"  He  has  stayed  away ! " 

All  night,  only  half  asleep, 

Little  rest  I  take,  — 
In  a  dream,  all  day,  I  keep 

Only  half  awake ! 


VIII. 

LOVE'S    RESUME. 

HPHE  Sun,  the  Rose,  the  Lily,  the  Dove,- 
J-     I  loved  them  all,  in  .my  early  love. 
I  love  them  no  longer,  but  her  alone, 
The  Pure,  the  Tender,  the  Only,  the  One. 
For  she  herself,  my  Queen  of  Love, 
Is  Rose,  and  Lily,  and  Sun,  and  Dove ! 


IX. 

BRIDGES    AND    WINGS. 

EACH  song  I  send  thee  is  a  bridge, 
Built  by  thy  happy  lover,  — 
A  golden  bridge,  by  which  my  love 
To  thee,  sweet  child,  comes  over. 

And  all  my  dreams  have  angel-wings, 
Made  up  of  smiles  and  sighing ; 

Lighter  than  air,  on  which  my  love 
To  thee,  dear  heart,  comes  flying. 


X. 

THE    TRUE    SPRING. 

WHEN  the  hour  had  come,   I   must  leave   thy 
home, 

Saw  I  nothing  of  the  charm  of  May; 
Knowing  this  alone,  that  all  joy  was  gone, 
When  from  thee,  from  thee,  I  must  away. 

Song  and  perfume  sweet  in  the  air  did  meet, 
But  they  could  not  touch  my  heart  that  day ; 
Knowing  this  alone,  that  all  joy  was  gone, 
When  from  thee,  from  thee,  I  must  away. 

Now  I  come  again,  'mid  the  winter  rain, 
Feeling  nothing  of  its  bitter  sting ; 
For  each  sound  I  hear  says  the  hour  is  near, 
Which  to  thee,  to  thee,  my  steps  shall  bring. 

Though  around  my  form  roars  the  cruel  storm, 
Tender  is  its  voice  as  song  of  spring ; 
For  each  sound  I  hear  says  the  hour  is  near, 
Which  to  thee,  to  thee,  my  steps  shall  bring. 


XI. 

WINTER    IN    SPRING. 

I   DREAMED  that  the  swallow  did  build  again 
Her  warm  soft  nest ; 
I  dreamed  that  the  lark  with  his  joyous  strain 

The  glad  earth  blessed ; 
I  dreamed  that  the  flowers  from  earth  did  start, 

In  bright  sunshine ; 

And  I  held  thee  close  to  my  happy  heart, 
Forever  mine ! 

In  one  short  night  are  the  sunny  hours 

By  northwinds  chilled ; 
In  one  short  night  are  the  tender  flowers 

With  black  frost  killed ; 
And  dead  forever  the  hopes  so  bright 

That  on  me  smiled ; 
Since  thou  hast  forgotten,  in  one  short  night, 

Thy  poor,  poor  child. 


XII. 
FROST    IN    THE    HEART. 

THE  blue,  blue  violets  which  I  see 
Bloom  in  her  eyes  so  tenderly ; 
The  red,  red  roses  which  I  seek 
To  pluck,  with  kisses,  from  her  cheek  ; 
The  cool  pale  lily-leaves  which  linger 
In  the  pure  whiteness  of  each  finger,  — 
No  winter  chill  in  these  appear, 
They  bloom  throughout  the  rolling  year; 
December's  frosts  have  done  their  part, 
But  only  froze  my  darling's  heart. 


XIII. 

CHILD-PLAY. 

MUCH  have  we  felt  in  our  inmost  breast, 
Yet  still  were  calm  and  self-possessed. 
We  played,  like  children,  "  Man  and  Wife," 
With  little  scolding,  quarrel,  or  strife. 
Jested  and  laughed  with  merry  faces, 
Gave  and  took  kisses  and  embraces  ; 
And  once,  because  we  deemed  it  good, 
Played  "  Hide  and  Seek  "  in  plain  and  wood ; 
But  played  it  so  well  in  wood  and  plain, 
That  we  never  found  each  other  again  ! 


XIV. 
THE    DIFFICULTY. 

ABOUT  my  Darling's  lovely  eyes 
I  Ve  made  no  end  of  verses ; 
About  her  precious  little  mouth, 
Songs,  which  each  voice  rehearses ; 
About  my  darling's  little  cheek, 
I  wrote  a  splendid  sonnet ; 
And,  —  if  she  only  had  a  heart,  — 
I  'd  write  an  ode  upon  it. 


XV. 

A    FOOLISH    QUESTION. 

WHY  I  am  not  kind  to-day ? 
Why,  my  friend,  what's  this  you  say? 
Pray,  can  you  recall  to  mind 
That  I  ever  have  been  kind  ? 
But,  if  it  were  ever  so, 
'T  is  forgotten,  long  ago ! 
Or,  if  not  forgotten  yet, 
From  this  hour  I  will  forget ! 


XVI. 
THE    CARPENTER. 


PUT  your  hand  on  my  heart,  my  dear ! 
In  that  little  chamber  you  may  hear 
A  cruel  carpenter's  hammer  go, 
Making  my  coffin  with  every  blow. 

His  hammer  pounds  by  night  and  day, 
It  drives  my  peaceful  sleep  away  ; 
Do  your  work,  carpenter,  soon  and  strong ! 
That  I  may  go  to  sleep  erelong. 


XVII. 

ALAS! 

T  S  that  time  forgotten  ?  its  memory  gone 
•*•   When  thy  heart  was  mine,  and  mine  alone 
That  heart  so  false,  that  heart  so  sweet ! 
Falser  and  sweeter  could  never  meet ! 

And  hast  thou  forgotten  the  love  and  the  woe 
That  rent  my  heart  ?     Is  it  long  ago  ? 
If  the  love  were  greater,  or  greater  the  woe  — 
Both  were  so  great,  —  I  can  never  know. 


XVIII. 
TO-DAY    AND    TO-MORROW. 

WHEN  she  left  me  for  a  while, 
Through'  long  months  I  could  not  smile  : 
Sun  and  smiles  had  passed  away ; 
When  my  life  had  lost  its  Day. 

She  came  back,  —  her  love  was  gone ! 

Tearless  then  I  made  no  moan. 
No  more  hope,  so  no  more  sorrow ; 

When  my  life  had  lost  its  Morrow. 


XIX. 


EBB   AND   FLOW. 

:  T7  BB  and  flow,  —  ebb  and  flow,  — 
•!—•'   Slowly  rising  and  sinking  slow,  — 
Why,  vast  Ocean,  movest  thou  so  ?  " 
Asked  the  maiden,  in  accents  low. 

"  Gazing  upon  thy  mighty  breast, 

Why  is  my  spirit  so  opprest  ? 

Unquiet  Ocean,  why  thine  unrest,  — 

And  thy  tide,  still  sweeping  from  east  to  west  ? : 

"  Ebb  and  flow,  —  ebb  and  flow," 
Answered  the  Ocean,  rolling  below ; 
"  I  follow  wherever  the  moon  may  go,  — 
Follow  always,  steady  and  slow. 

"  Above  my  billows,  with  mighty  power, 
She  lifts  me  high,  in  a  happy  hour, 
And  my  waves  leap  up  in  sparkle  and  shower,  - 
As  swells  toward  the  sun  the  bursting  flower. 

45 


EBB  AND  FLOW. 

"  I  follow  her  movement,  night  and  day ; 
When  she  has  gone,  I  cannot  stay ; 
When  she  departs,  I  sink  away,  — 
Sinking  from  harbor  and  creek  and  bay." 

Then  answered  the  maiden,  "  I  see !  I  see  ! 
O  Heart  of  mine,  thy  mystery ! 
Thou  who  dost  follow,  glad  and  free, 
The  star  which  forever  lifteth  thee. 

"  There  is  ebb  and  flow  in  sea  and  heart, 
And  our  life  ebbs  out  if  Love  depart ; 
For  an  empty  heart  what  joys  remain  ? 
Let  my  monarch  come,  though  he  go  again  ! 

"  Let  Love  arrive,  though  Love  must  go  ! 
Let  Heart  and  Ocean  ebb  and  flow  ! 
Come,  cruel  pleasure  !     Come,  kindly  woe ! 
For  where  Love  has  never  been,  I  know 
That  life  is  only  death  below." 


XX. 

THE    BITTER    WAKING. 

I  SLEPT,  dear  love;  and  in  my  dream  was  weeping. 
I  woke.     My  heart  beat  hard  with  cruel  fears  ; 
For  I  had  dreamed  thou  in  thy  grave  wert  sleeping, 
And  so  my  cheek  was  wet  with  foolish  tears. 

I  dreamed  another  dream  that  cruel  morn,  — 

0  bitter  tears  !     O  unavailing  sorrow  ! 

For  now  I  thought  thy  love  was  dead  and  gone, 
And  night  which  falls  on  love  can  know  no  morrow. 

1  dreamed  once  more.     With  love  of  other  years 
You  loved  me.     Ah  !  how  sweet  that  love  did  seem  ! 
And  then  I  woke,  —  and  faster  flowed  my  tears, 
My  bitter  tears,  because  it  was  a  dream. 


XXI. 

THE   IMPASSABLE   GULF. 

OWERE  it  but  some  wrong  our  hearts  divided! 
Or  were  this  gulf  between  us  but  a  sin ! 
For  Love  is  grace,  and  can  forgive  —  provided 
It  find  some  answering  love  the  other  heart  within. 

But  how  can  fire  burn  on  in  water  ?     How 
Can  water  live  with  fire  in  calm  consent  ? 
The  fatal  discord  which  divides  us  now 
Is  like  the  war  of  either  element. 

Follow  thy  star  henceforth,  as  I  shall  mine, 

In  Faith,  Thought,  Love,  diverging,  line  from  line, — 

Alas  !  how  changed  henceforth  those  stars  shall  shine. 

Thy  voice  now  sounds  to  me  empty  and  vain  ; 
My  voice  is  dead  to  thee,  —  and  we  complain, 
That  we  have  naught  in  common  but  this  pain. 


XXII. 
THE   WINE   OF   LIFE. 

THE  spring  is  lovely  on  the  earth  and  sky, 
Because  its  beauty  must  so  soon  go  by. 

And  Love's  young  dream  is  sweet  because  its  day 
Swifter  than  spring's  first  blossoms  fades  away. 

Yet  to  have  loved,  though  Love  has  fled,  is  bliss, 
For  nothing  warms  the  human  heart  like  this. 

Of  that  glad  wine  my  soul  has  drunk  its  fill ; 
Now  the  sun  sinks,  —  let  night  come  when  it  will. 

The  unknown  hours  may  bring  or  shade  or  shine, 
The  treasure  in  my  heart  is  always  mine. 


XXIII. 

THE    WATER-LILY. 

A  SILENT  water-lily 
From  the  dark  lake  doth  rise : 
Her  tender  snow-white  blossom 
On  the  still  water  lies. 

The  moon,  from  highest  heaven, 
Pours  down  its  golden  light; 

And  all  its  rays  are  gathered 
Into  that  blossom  bright. 

Around  that  snow-white  flower 
A  singing  swan  doth  float ; 

It  is  his  dying  hour, 
It  is  his  dying  note. 

He  pours  his  soul  in  music, 

His  heart  must  break,  ere  long: 

O  flower,  —  snow-white  flower  ! 
Wilt  thou  not  hear  the  song  ? 


XXIV. 
ON    THE    WATER. 

HPHE  valley  and  the  hill  are  sweet  with  May, 
J-     Th£  soft  spring  air  is  softer  still,  to-day, 
The  woodland  echoes  float  in  evening  red; 
The  earth  is  joyful,  but  my  heart  is  dead. 

The  silver  moon  hangs  in  the  crimson  west, 
Gay  songs  are  ringing  from  each  happy  breast, 
In  the  full  wine-cup  glows  the  wine,  deep-red  — 
Can  I  be  joyful,  when  my  heart  is  dead. 

The  little  boat  goes  swiftly  on  her  way, 
The  first  stars  glimmer  in  the  twilight  gray, 
Soft  music  sounds,  and  softer  words  are  said  — 
I  would  be  joyful,  but  my  heart  is  dead. 

Yet  if  my  lost  love  from  her  grave  could  rise, 
To  thrill  me  with  those  unforgotten  eyes, 
And  offer  me  once  more  the  joys  long  fled  — 
In  vain  !  —  for  lost  is  lost,  and  dead  is  dead. 


XXV. 
A    SPRING    SONG. 

O  SPRINGTIME  sweet! 
Over  the  hills  come  thy  lovely  feet ; 
The  earth's  white  mantle  is  cast  away, 
She  clothes  herself  all  in  green  to-day ; 
And  the  little  flowers  that  hid  from  the  cold 
Are  springing  anew  from  the  warm,  fresh  mould. 

O  springtime  sweet ! 

The  whole  earth  smiles  thy  coming  to  greet ; 
Our  hearts  to  their  inmost  depths  are  stirred 
By  the  first  spring  flower  and  the  song  of  the  bird : 
Our  sweet,  strange  feelings  no  room  can  find, 
They  wander  like  dreams  through  heart  and  mind. 

O  springtime  sweet ! 

How  the  old  and  the  new  in  thy  soft  hours  meet ! 
The  dear,  dead  joys  of  the  days  long  past, 
The  brightness  and  beauty  that  could  not  last,  — 
Their  fair  ghosts  rise  with  the  ending  of  snow, — 
The  springs  and  the  summers  of  long  ago. 


A   SPRING  SOATG. 

O  springtime  sweet ! 

How  thou  once  wert  dear  and  fair  and  complete  ! 
No  sweetness  of  words  nor  of  music  could  tell 
The  gladness  that  once  made  my  bosom  swell ; 
And  thou  art  not  the  same  as  the  springs  of  yore, 
For  the  beauty  and  blessing  that  come  no  more. 

O  springtime  sweet! 
With  silent  hope  thy  coming  I  greet ; 
For  all  that  in  winter  the  bright  earth  lost 
Doth  rise,  new-born,  with  the  ending  of  frost : 
Even  so  shalt  thou  bring  me  —  at  last,  at  last ! 
All  the  hope  and  the  joy  and  the  love  of  the  past. 


XXVI. 
SPRING    THOUGHTS    IN    ITALY. 

T     ITTLE  bird,  where  do  you  fly  so  fast  ? 

-L*  "  O,  winter  is  ended,  at  last,  at  last ! 
And  I  fly  in  haste  to  my  northern  home, 
For  winter  has  ended  and  spring  has  come." 

Dear  little  bird  with  the  feathers  gay, 

A  moment  listen,  a  moment  stay ! 

I  have  a  love  in  that  northern  land,  — 

I  stand  alone  on  a  foreign  strand ; 

I  cannot  fly  with  thee  to  woo  her, 

But  thou  shalt  take  my  greeting  to  her. 

So,  when  thou  art  come  to  that  distant  shore, 

t),  hasten  to  my  darling's  door ! 

Sing  sweet  and  low,  sing  loud  and  clear, 

And  thou  shalt  catch  her  listening  ear ; 

Tell  her,  her  eyes'  remembered  light 

Is  all  that  makes  my  heaven  bright ; 

Tell  her,  her  sweet  lips'  parting  word 

Still  day  and  night  by  me  is  heard; 

That  every  hour  of  every  day 

I  think  of  her  so  far  away ; 


SPRING    THOUGHTS  IN  ITALY. 

That  time  nor  space,  nor  life  nor  death, 
My  heart  from  her  can  sever,  — 
For  I  love  my  love  with  every  breath, 
I  love  my  love  forever ! 

And  the  little  flowers  in  the  valley  sweet,  — 
The  happy  flowers  that  kiss  her  feet !  — 
Greet  them  a  thousand  times  for  me, 
And  tell  them  that  across  the  sea 
All  strange,  bright  blossoms  come  with  May, 
But  none  are  fair  to  me  as  they! 


XXVII. 
ANOTHER    VERSION. 

WHITHER,  dear  bird,  your  flight? 
"  I  'm  going,  I  'm  going, 
Where  shines  the  northern  sun  so  bright, 
For  there  spring  flowers  are  growing." 

O  little  bird,  fly  far  and  fast ! 
And  when  you  find  my  love  at  last, 

Whose  house  the  lindens  cover, 
Tell  her  I  think  of  her  all  day, 
And  dream  of  her  all  night ;  and  say, 

I  am  her  own  true  lover. 

And  every  flower  that  you  see 
Greet  thousand  times  for  me. 


XXVIII. 

GREETING    FROM    FAR    AWAY. 

SO  many  stars  as  shine  in  the  sky, 
So  many  little  winds  murmuring  by, 
So  many  blessings  attend  thee ; 
So  many  leaves  as  dance  on  the  trees, 
So  many  flowers  as  wave  in  the  breeze, 
Brighter  than  those,  love,  and  sweeter  than  these, 
The  loving  thoughts  that  I  send  thee. 

Were  I  the  golden  sun  to  shine, 
Every  ray  a  glad  thought  of  mine, 

Loving  and  true  and  tender,  — 
I  would  crown  with  my  beams  thy  dearest  head, 
From  morning  golden  to  evening  red ; 
Deep  in  my  heart  lies  the  thought  unsaid, 

The  love  that  no  speech  can  render. 

Might  I  but  guard  thee  forevermore  ! 
A  sheltering  roof,  a  fast-shut  door, 
In  my  deep  heart  to  hold  thee  ; 


GREETING  FROM  FAR  AWAY. 

In  a  still,  safe  room  thou  dost  dwell  apart, 
Thy  spirit  pure  in  my  loving  heart, 
So  fair,  so  dear,  so  true,  thou  art ;  — 
So  doth  my  love  enfold  thee. 

When  I  faint  with  thirst  on  a  dusty  way, 
A  pure  spring  flows  for  me  every  day,  — 

I  drink  thy  love  forever ; 
I  wander  alone  at  dead  of  night, 
But  ever  before  me  I  see  a  light, 
In  darkest  hours  more  clear,  more  bright; 

And  the  hope  that  I  bear  fails  never. 

Though  I  have  journeyed  across  the  sea, 
Still  before  me  thy  face  I  see, 

Thy  form  still  goes  before  me ; 
And  I  whisper  thy  name  to  the  woods  and  caves, 
And  I  sing  it  aloud  to  the  rushing  waves ; 
And  I  have  all  that  my  spirit  craves, 

When  the  thought  of  thee  comes  o'er  me. 

When  thou  dost  not  know  what  the  little  brooks  say, 
Think  they  go  sadly  upon  their  way, 

Because  we  two  are  parted ; 
When  the  dim  forest  droops  its  leaves, 
Think  that  the  soul  within  it  grieves, 
Because  its  shadow  no  more  receives 

Two  lovers  faithful-hearted. 

When  the  sweet  flowers  droop  and  die, 
Think  that  my  hopes  all  withered  lie ; 


GREETING  FROM  FAR  AWAY. 

Think  how  my  heart  is  broken ! 
When,  in  April,  with  sun  and  rain, 
Violets  blossom  on  hill  and  plain, 
Think  thou  couldst  call  me  to  life  again, 

By  the  sweet  word  still  unspoken. 

When  I  send  thee  a  red,  red  rose,  — 
The  sweetest  flower  on  earth  that  grows  ! 

Think,  dear  heart,  how  I  love  thee ; 
Listen  to  what  the  sweet  rose  saith, 
With  her  crimson  leaf  and  her  fragrant  breath, 
Love,  I  am  thine,  in  life  and  death ! 

O  'my  love,  dost  thou  love  me  ? 


XXIX. 

"LOVE  DOTH  TO  HER  EYES  REPAIR.' 

WHY  ask  of  others  what  they  cannot  say,  — 
Others,  who  for  thy  good. have  little  care? 
Come  close,  dear  friend,  and  learn  a  better  way; 
Look  in  my  eyes,  and  read  my  story  there !  « 

Trust  not  thine  own  proud  wit ;  't  is  idle  dreaming ! 
The  common  gossip  of  the  street  forbear ; 
Nor  even  trust  my  acts  or  surface-seeming : 
Ask  only  of  my  eyes ;  my  truth  is  there. 

My  lips  refuse  an  answer  to  thy  boldness ; 
Or  with  false,  cruel  words  deny  thy  prayer,  — 
Believe  them  not,  I  hate  them  for  their  coldness  ! 
Look  in  my  eyes ;  my  love  is  written  there.  - 


XXX. 


TEARS. 


I  MOURNED  and  wept  through  many  weary  years, 
In  bitter  grief  and  care ; 

And  now  this  perfect  hour  still  brings  me  tears  ; 
My  bliss  I  cannot  bear. 

O,  how  can  one  poor  heart  all  heaven  contain  ? 

My  foolish  lips  are  dumb ; 
Alas !  in  sweetest  joy,  in  sharpest  pain, 

Only  these  bright  tears  come. 


XXXI. 

WER  WENIG   SUCHT,  DER  FINDET  VIEL. 

ONLY  a  shelter  for  my  head  I  sought, 
One  stormy  winter  night; 
To  me  the  blessing  of  my  life  was  brought, 

Making  the  whole  world  bright. 
How  shall  I  thank  thee  for  a  gift  so  sweet, 

O  dearest  Heavenly  Friend? 
I  sought  a  resting-place  for  weary  feet, 
And  found  my  journey's  end. 

Only  the  latchet  of  a  friendly  door 

My  timid  fingers  tried; 
A  loving  heart,  with  all  its  precious  store, 

To  me  was  opened  wide. 
I  asked  for  shelter  from  a  passing  shower,  — 

My  sun  shall  always  shine  ! 
I  would  have  sat  beside  the  hearth  an  hour,  — 

And  the  whole  heart  was  mine ! 


XXXII. 

WINTER    SUNSHINE. 

SHINE  brighter  than  the  sun  in  heaven,  O  eyes, 
beloved  so  long ! 
All  blessed  gifts   that  can  be  given,  to  thee,  dear 

child,  belong ; 
Thine  eyes  hold  all  my  sunshine,  my  heaven  is  all  in 

thee; 
I  ask  no  other  happiness,  when  thy  dear  face  I  see. 

O,  fair  and  sweet  are  summer  flowers,  but   sweeter 

still  art  thou ; 
I  hold  them  dear,  the  bright  June  hours,  but  I  am 

gladder  now ; 
Through  storm   and  snow  and   rain    I   come  where 

thou,  my  darling,  art ; 
I  am  not  cold  nor  weary  when  I  hold  thee  to  my 

heart ! 


XXXIII. 

A    REMINISCENCE. 

"~n  WAS  April;  'twas  Sunday;  the  day  was  fair, - 
J-          Yes  !  sunny  and  fair. 

And  how  happy  was  I ! 
You  wore  the  white  dress  you  loved  to  wear ; 
And  two  little  flowers  were  hid  in  your  hair  — 

Yes  !  in  your  hair  — 

On  that  day  —  gone  by  ! 

We  sat  on  the  moss  ;  it  was  shady  and  dry,  — 

Yes  !  shady  and  dry ; 

And  we  sat  in  the  shadow. 
We  looked  at  the  leaves,  we  looked  at  the  sky, 
We  looked  at  the  brook  which  bubbled  near  by,  — 

Yes  !  bubbled  near  by, 

Through  the  quiet  meadow. 

A  bird  sang  on  the  swinging  vine,  — 

Yes  !  on  the  vine,  — 

And  then,  —  sang  not ; 
I  took  your  little  white  hand  in  mine ; 
'T  was  April ;  't  was  Sunday ;  't  was  warm  sunshine, 

Yes  !  warm  sunshine  : 

Have  you  forgot  ? 


XXXIV. 


CONTENTED. 

T   SAT  above  the  meadow, 
•*•   Beneath  the  linden's  shadow, 
And  held  my  darling's  hand ; 
The  leaves  all  still  and  dreaming, 
The  sun's  rays  softly  streaming, 
Upon  the  quiet  land. 

We  felt  our  pulses  flutter, 
But  not  a  word  did  utter ; 

We  were  too  happy  so. 
I  felt,  but  nothing  said  I, 
We  knew  the  whole  already ; 

What  could  we  wish  to  know  ? 

No  longing  could  torment  us, 
For  all  things  had  been  sent  us ; 

Our  hearts  were  full  of  bliss. 
Two  sweet  eyes  sent  their  greeting, 
And  four  warm  lips  were  meeting, 

In  one  too  happy  kiss. 


XXXV. 
THE    NIGHT-BLOOMING    FLOWER. 

THE  busy  day  from  off  the  earth  is  going, 
Its  noisy  and  tumultuous  labors  cease, 
And,  through  the  cool  and  mellow  darkness  flowing, 
Comes  down  from  out  the  skies  a  tranquil  peace. 

The  fields  all  sleep.     The  woods  alone  are  waking ; 
And  what  they  would  not  whisper  to  the  light, 
Now,  every  branch  astir,  and  leaves  all  shaking, 
.They  murmur  softly  to  the  listening  night. 

So  I,  who  in  the  day  could  only  mutter 
Vaguely  my  inmost  longing  to  thine  ear, 
Now,  in  this  gloom,  my  every  thought  can  utter,  — 
Child  of  my  heart !  come  soon,  come  now,  to  hear  ! 


XXXVI. 

TO    THE    SILENT    ONE. 

AH,  leave  to  other  maidens 
Fair  greeting,  sweet  replies  ; 
Thou  art  my  lovely  Silence, 
With  thy  clear  friendly  eyes. 

The  eyes,  so  true,  so  tender, 
They  tell  me,  day  by  day, 

More  of  thy  deepest  heart,  love, 
Than  lips  could  ever  say.. 

So  wakes  the  earth  to  gladness 

The  blessed  April  sun  ; 
Yet,  year  by  year,  in  silence, 

The  perfect  work  is  done. 

Yet  all  sweet  words  and  music 
To  thee,  dear  child,  belong ; 

Be  thou  my  lovely  Silence, 
And  I  will  be  thy  Song. 


XXXVII. 

WHAT    LOVE    SAID. 

LOVE  said,  —  "A  beauty  not  of  earth  but  heaven, 
Still  seek  in  thy  beloved's  glances  bright ; 
For  love  to  man  as  his  best  strength  is  given, 
A  guiding  star,  not  a  false,  wandering  light." 

Love  said,  —  "  In  the  sweet  eyes  where  thou  dost  see 
Pure  light,  not  flame,  there  shalt  thou  seek  thy  fate ; 

So  a  clear  lamp  to  light  thy  path  shall  be, 
No  wasting  fire  thy  heart  to  desolate." 

Love  said,  —  "This  blessing  to  thy  life  is  given, 
To  draw  thy  heart  from  things  of  little  worth  ; 

Wings  shall  it  give,  to  lift  thy  heart  to  heaven, 
Not  chains  to  hold  it  closer  to  the  earth." 


XXXVIII. 

LOST   SUNSHINE. 

DARLING  child,  you  ask  me  why, 
While  I  sing,  I  still  must  sigh ; 

What  can  grieve  me  so  ? 
Fair  spring  was  mine,  and  it  would  not  stay ; 
Bright  youth  was  mine,  and  I  dreamed  it  away  ; 
True  love  came  to  me,  one  golden  day,  — 
Smiling,  I  let  it  go. 

The  morning  hour  was  sweet  and  cool. 

I  had  no  thirst  when  my  cup  brimmed  full ; 

Careless,  I  put  it  by. 
Laden  boughs  were  over  my  head, 
Fair  fruit-clusters,  purple  and  red, 
Summer's  glories  all  round  me  spread, 

Yet  nothing  held  my  eye. 

But  when  the  sun  sank  to  his  rest, 
And  crimson  glories  curtained  the  west ; 

What  bitter  thirst  was  mine 
69 


LOST   SUNSHINE. 

I  seek  in  vain  through  the  hours  of  night 
What  came  to  me  with  the  morning  light. 
Long,  long  weeping  has  blinded  my  sight ; 

I  mourn  my  lost  sunshine. 

My  heart  is  withered  and  cold  and  dead ; 
Snows  of  winter  are  on  my  head  ; 

I  travel  my  weary  way : 
Fair  and  sweet  were  my  springtime  flowers, 
Rich  and  full  were  my  summer  hours, 
Laden  with  gold  my  autumn  bowers  ; 

I  have  nothing  left  to-day. 


XXXIX. 

THE  SUNSET  HOUR. 

AH,  do  not  smile  upon  me  so ! 
The  glance  that  beams  on  me  to-day 
Is  sweet,  but  only  brings  me  woe ; 
Ah,  turn  thy  lovely  eyes  away ! 

This  lonely  heart  may  quiver, 

Its  throbs  are  only  pain  ; 
Even  thy  kindness  never 
Can  bid  it  hope  again. 

I  am  not  young  and  fresh  as  thou,  — 

My  heart  is  not  so  pure  as  thine, 
Thy  love  can  never  bless  me  now ; 
I  dare  not  take  thy  hand  in  mine. 
Alas  !  one  fleeting  hour 

This  bright  dream  comes  to  me ; 
What  wouldst  thou,  —  opening  flower, 
With  me,  —  a  blasted  tree  ? 

The  sunset  hour  for  me  is  near, 
For  thee  the  day  is  just  begun  ; 


THE  SUNSET  HOUR. 

I  know  no  longer  hope  nor  fear, 
For  thee  all  sweetness  may  be  won  : 
To  thee  all  joy  and  gladness 

The  golden  hours  bring ; 
I  sit  in  doubt  and  sadness, 
My  memories  pale  to  sing. 

Then  turn  thy  lovely  eyes  away, 

My  gentle  child,  thou  rosebud  sweet : 
I  wander  forth  alone  to-day 
With  aching  heart  and  weary  feet ; 
I  roam  the  wide  earth  over, 
I  climb  the  salt  sea-wave ; 
For  thee,  —  a  noble  lover ; 
For  me,  —  a  grave. 


XL. 

HOW    IT    HAPPENS. 

HARSH  voices  said  to  her,  "  He  loves  thee  not ; 
He  trifles  with  thee."     Then  she  drooped  her 

head, 

And  to  her  eyes  the  tears  came  thick  and  hot, 
And  yet  in  secret  were  those  salt  tears  shed. 
Alas,  that  she  believed  that  cruel  word  ! 

For  when  he  came,  her  face  was  turned  away ; 

And  then  with  scorn  and  pride  his  heart  was  stirred, 

And  with  forced  mirth  he  went  his  lonely  way. 

An  angel  ever  whispered  in  her  heart, 

"  Thy  love  is  true ;  only  reach  forth  thy  hand ! " 
And  while  in  bitterness  he  stood  apart, 

The  same  sweet  pleading  must  his  heart  withstand  : 
"  She  loves  thee  well,  she  is  thy  destined  bride  : 

Speak  but  one  tender  word,  the  spell  is  broken ! " 
Day  after  day  they  met —  O,  sinful  pride  ! 

The  word,  the  fateful  word,  remained  unspoken. 

And  so  they  parted.     And  for  many  days 
Each  mourned  in  secret.     As  a  dying  lamp 


HOW  IT  HAPPENS. 

That  lights  some  dim  church  with  its  fitful  rays, 
Then  with  a  flash  expires,  in  dusk  and  damp, — 

Even  so  their  love  grew  fainter  day  by  day ; 
Flickered  and  flashed  with  many  a  dying  gleam, 

Until  at  last  it  faded  quite  away, 
Forgotten,  or  remembered  as  a  dream. 

Yet  sometimes  would  the  pale  moon's  misty  light 

Fall  on  a  pillow  wet  with  lonely  tears  ; 
And  wistful  eyes  gazed  through  the  silent  night,  — 

Perhaps  they  dreamed  of  half-forgotten  years ; 
And  of  the  blessing  that  they  did  not  win ; 

Sweet,  secret  hopes  that  ne'er  were  plighted  troth 
Now  lost  forever,  all  that  might  have  been. 

O  God,  who  sends  us  love,  forgive  them  both ! 


XLI. 


THE   PILGRIMAGE   TO    KEVLAAR. 

I. 

'"THE  mother  stood  at  the  window; 
-*-     In  the  chamber  lay  her  son. 
"  Arise  !  arise  !  dear  William, 

And  see  the  crowd  march  on." 
"  I  am  so  sick,  my  mother, 

I  cannot  hear  or  see  ; 
I  think  of  my  dead  Gretchen, 

And  my  heart  is  sad  in  me." 

"  Then  we  will  go  to  Kevlaar, 

With  book  and  rosary, 
And  there  God's  gracious  mother 

Will  heal  thy  heart  for  thee." 

The  banners  flutter  gayly, 
The  church  bells  ring  aloud, 

Past  proud  Cologne  it  marches,  — 
The  singing,  praying  crowd. 

75 


THE  PILGRIMAGE    TO  KEVLAAR. 

The  son,  he  leads  his  mother, 

And  all  go  marching  on ; 
"  All  hail  to  thee,  Maria  !  " 

They  sing  with  solemn  tone. 

II. 

God's  mother  sits  at  Kevlaar, 

With  jewels  in  her  hair ; 
To-day  she  wears  her  diamonds, 

For  many  guests  are  there. 
The1  sick  with  votive  offerings 

Have  come  from  many  lands, 
To  hang  upon  her  altar 

Their  waxen  feet  and  hands. 
For  when  one  offers  a  waxen  hand, 

His  hand  is  cured  of  its  wound ; 
And  when  one  offers  a  waxen  foot, 

His  foot  at  once  is  sound. 
Many  who  came  on  crutches  ,. 

Go  running  and  dancing  away , 
And  those  whose  fingers  were  stiff  as  sticks 

On  the  violin  can  play. 
Out  of  a  waxen  candle 

The  mother  formed  a  heart : 
"Give  this  to  Holy  Mary, 

And  she  will  cure  thy  smart ! " 
Sadly  he  took  the  image, 

Went  sadly  to  the  shrine, 
And,  words  with  tears  commingled, 

He  cried :  "  O  Maid  divine  ! 
76 


THE  PILGRIMAGE   TO  KEVLAAR. 

0  Queen  of  heaven  and  angels ! 
Receive  my  bitter  moan. 

1  dwell  with  my  poor  mother, 

In  a  street  of  fair  Cologne ; 
Where,  in  three  hundred  churches, 

Men  go  to  sing  and  pray ; 
And  near  to  us  lived  Gretchen, 

And  she  is  dead  to-day ! 
I  bring  this  waxen  image, 

The  image  of  my  heart ; 
Heal  thou  my  bitter  sorrow, 

And  cure  my  deadly  smart ! 
Do  this,  and  every  morning, 

Evening,  and  all  day  long, 
Hail  to  thee,  Blessed  Mary, 

Shall  be  my  prayer  and  song !  " 

III. 

The  sick  son  and  his  mother 

Slept  in  a  little  room ; 
Then  came  the  Blessed  Virgin, 

Soft  stepping  through  the  gloom. 
She  bent  above  the  sick  man, 

And  on  his  heart  she  laid 
Her  gentle  hand,  —  then,  smiling, 

Passed,  like  a  mist,  the  Maid. 
The  mother,  in  her  slumber 

Had  seen  the  whole  event ; 
Then  wakened,  for  the  frightened  dogs 

Howled,  as  the  Virgin  went. 

77 


THE  PILGRIMAGE    TO  -KEVLAAR. 

He  lay  stretched  out  before  her, 

Her  son,  and  he  was  dead ; 
And  on  his  thin  and  pallid  cheek 

The  morning  sun  burned  red. 
The  mother  knew  not  how  she  felt, 

But  bent  in  peace  her  head; 
"  God  bless  thee  !  Holy  Mother !  " 

Were  all  the  words  she  said. 


XLII. 

BEREAVEMENT. 

SHALL  the  seasons  bring  no  end  to  your  sorrow, 
O  my  friend, 

As  you  journey  on  your  way  ? 

And  your  bitterness  of  grief  find  no  comfort,  no  re- 
lief, — 
But  deepen  day  by  day. 

Shall  it  thus  confuse  your  mind,  till  no  outlet  you  can 

find 

From  a  labyrinth  of  woe ; 
That  your  daughter  sleeps  in  peace,  where  earthly 

trials  cease, 
And  where  we  all  must  go  ? 

If,  in  answer  to  your  prayer,  she  had  gone,  with  snowy 

hair, 

And  bent  with  age,  above, 
Would  the  angels  come  to  meet  her  with  welcome  any 

sweeter 
Than  their  present  tones  of  love  ? 

79 


BEREA  VEMENT. 

"  O  cruel  fate,"  you  cry,  "  for  such  a  child  to  die  ! 

"  Taken  back,  as  soon  as  given !  " 
But  had  she  stayed  here  long,  she  still  had  perished 
young ; 

For  there  is  no  age  in  heaven. 

It  is  nature's  law,  I  know,  that  when  our  darlings  go 

Such  tears  should  blind  our  eyes ; 
But  because  their  life  has  gone,  to  cast  away  our  own 

Is  neither  well  nor  wise. 

I  knew  the  darling  child,  so  tender,  pure,  and  mild, 

Now  vanished  from  your  arms ; 
Nor  foolishly  would  try  to  bid  your  grief  go  by, 

Or  underrate  her  charms. 

But  she  was  of  this  world,  where  the  things  most 
sweet 

Pass  soonest  away ; 
And  Rose  met  the  fate  which  other  roses  meet,  — 

To  bloom  for  a  day. 

Death,  harsher  than  all  else  to  a  mortal's  prayers  and 
tears, 

Falling  fast  as  summer  rain, 
Like  a  statue,  sitting  calm  with  his  cruel,  stony  ears, 

Lets  us  cry  ;  but  in  vain ! 

Of  the  peasant's  simple  latch,  sleeping  under  strawy 

thatch, 
He  pulls  the  silent  string, 


BEREA  VEMEXT. 

And  passes  by  the  guard,  at  the  Louvre  keeping  ward, 
To  the  couch  of  our  king. 

Your  grief  may  smite  the  sky ;  no  echo  shall  reply ! 

Your  stormy  grief  is  vain  ! 
To  will  what  God  doth  will,  is  for  us  the  only  skill 

To  cure  this  bitter  pain. 


XLIII. 
THE    CHILDREN'S    CHURCH. 

THE  bells  of  the  churches  are  ringing,  — 
Papa  and  mamma  have  both  gone,  — 
And  three  little  children  sit  singing 
Together  this  still  Sunday  morn. 

While  the  bells  toll  away  in  the  steeple, 
Though  too  small  to  sit  still  in  a  pew, 

These  busy  religious  small  people 
Determine  to  have  their  church  too. 

So,  as  free  as  the  birds,  or  the  breezes 
By  which  their  fair  ringlets  are  fanned, 

Each  rogue  sings  away  as  he  pleases, 
With  book  upside  down  in  his  hand. 

Their  hymn  has  no  sense  in  its  letter, 
Their  music  no  rhythm  nor  tune  : 

Our  worship,  perhaps,  may  be  better, 
But  theirs  reaches  God  quite  as  soon. 


THE   CHILDREN'S  CHURCH. 

4 
Their  angels  stand  close  to  the  Father ; 

His  heaven  is  bright  with  these  flowers ; 
And  the  dear  God  above  us  would  rather 
Hear  praise  from  their  lips  than  from  ours. 

Sing  on,  little  children,  —  your  voices 
Fill  the  air  with  contentment  and  love ; 

All  nature  around  you  rejoices, 
And  the  birds  warble  sweetly  above. 

Sing  on,  —  for  the  proudest  orations, 

The  liturgies  sacred  and  long, 
The  anthems  and  worship  of  nations, 

Are  poor  to  your  innocent  song. 

Sing  on,  —  our  devotion  is  colder, 

Though  wisely  our  prayers  may  be  planned, 
For  often  we,  too,  who  are  older, 

Hold  our  book  the  wrong  way  in  our  hand. 

Sing  on,  —  our  harmonic  inventions 

We  study  with  labor  and  pain ; 
Yet  often  our  angry  contentions 

Take  the  harmony  out  of  our  strain. 

Sing  on ;  —  all  our  struggle  and  battle, 
Our  cry  when  most  deep  and  sincere,  — 

What  are  they?     A  child's  simple  prattle, 
A  breath  in  the  Infinite  Ear. 
83 


XLIV. 

"THE    PERFECT    WHOLE." 

LIVE  in  that  Whole  to  which  all  parts  belong ; 
Thus  Beauty,  Action,  Truth  shall  be  thy  dower. 
Compose  thyself  in  God,  and  so  be  strong, 
Since  only  in  life's  fulness  is  its  power. 
As,  in  a  plant,  leaves,  flowers,  and  fruits  must  grow 
Out  of  one  germ,  each  centred  in  the  whole,  — 
So  must  Love,  Thought,  and  Deed  forever  flow 
Forth  from  one  fountain  in  the  human  soul. 

.   .     , 
Oto.  7. 


XLV. 


"THE    DEVIL    IS    A    FOOL." 

SAINT  Dominic,  the  glory  of  the  schools, 
Writing,  one  day,  "the  Inquisition's  "  rules, 
Stopt,  when  the  evening  came,  for  want  of  light. 
The  devils,  who  below,  from  morn  till  night, 
Well  pleased,  had   seen   his   work,  exclaimed   with 

sorrow, 

"  Something  he  will  forget  before  to-morrow ! " 
One  zealous  imp  flew  upward  from  the  place, 
And  stood  before  him,  with  an  angel  face. 
"  I  come,"  said  he,  "  sent  from  God's  Realm  of  Peace, 
To  light  you  lest  your  holy  labors  cease." 
Well  pleased,  the  saint  wrote  on  with  careful  pen. 
The  candle  was  consumed ;  the  devil  then 
Lighted  his  thumb;  the  saint,  quite  undisturbed, 
Finished  his  treatise  to  the  final  word. 
Then  he  looked  up,  and  started  with  affright ; 
For  lo !  the  thumb  blazed  with  a  lurid  light. 
"  Your  thumb  is  burned  ! "  said  he.     The  child  of  sin, 
Changed  to  his  proper  form,  and,  with  a  grin, 
85 


"THE  DEVIL  IS  A   FOOL." 

Said,  "  I  will  quench  it  in  the  martyrs'  blood 
Your  book  will  cause  to  flow,  —  a  crimson  flood  ! : 

Triumphantly  the  fiend  returned  to  hell, 
And  told  his  story.     Satan  said,  "  'T  is  well ! 
Your  aim  was  good,  but  foolish  was  the  deed, 
For  blood  of  martyrs  is  the  Church's  seed." 


XLVI. 

OUR    CONFIDENCE. 

T  1  7ITH  joyful  looks  on  thee  we  call, 

*  V       Firm  in  thy  word  we  stay  ; 
Madness  and  murder  rise  from  hell, 

But  turn  us  not  away. 
And  though  in  ruins  lies  our  land, 
We  know  thy  Word  will  always  stand ! 

Faith  conquers  in  no  easy  war, 
By  toil  alone  the  prize  is  won  ; 

The  grape  dissolves  not  in  the  cup, 

Wine  from  the  crushing  press  must  run  ; 

And  would  an  angel  heavenward  go, 

A  human  heart  must  break  below. 

And  thus,  though  life  is  made  a  lie, 
And  shams  their  showy  temples  rear, 

And  shameless  traitors,  set  on  high, 
Shudder  at  Truth,  and  Courage  fear, 

And  see,  with  terror's  dizzy  brain, 

The  waking  nation  burst  its  chain, — 
87 


OUR   CONFIDENCE. 

Though  brothers  brethren  may  oppress, 
Severed  by  hate  and  streaming  blood  ; 

And  German  princes  not  confess 
Their  thrones  to  be  one  sisterhood  ; 

And  that,  if  we  were  One,  we  might 

In  Germany  the  world's  law  write;  — 

We  will  not  lose  our  faith  in  thee, 
But  ever  strive ;  in  steadfast  trust, 

That  thou  thy  German  land  wilt  free, 
Wilt  cast  the  tyrant  in  the  dust. 

And  though  year-distant  lies  the  day ; 

Who  can,  like  thee,  the  right  time  say  ? 


XLVII. 

THE   LAST  TEN  OF  THE   FOURTH  REGI- 
MENT. 

A    THOUSAND  soldiers  knelt  in  Warsaw's  square, 
x  *•  The  solemn  oath  of  battle  sternly  taking ; 
They  swore,  without  a  shot,  the  foe  to  dare, 
With  bayonets'  point  their  deadly  pathway  making. 
Beat  drums  !  march  on,  and  let  our  country  tell 
That  "  Poland's  Fourth  "  will  keep  its  promise  well. 

So  said,  and  bloody  Praga  saw  it  clone. 
Right  where  the  foe  in  thickest  mass  was  rushing, 
We  charged,  and  not  a  comrade  fired  his  gun, 
But  each  with  deadly  bayonet  on  was  pushing. 
Praga  shall  tell  how,  'mid  the  blackened  air, 
Poland's  "  Fourth  Regiment "  was  bleeding  there. 

When,  from  a  thousand  throats  of  fire,  the  flame 

At  Ostrolenka  on  our  columns  falling 

Mowed  down  our  ranks,  we  broke  our  way,  and  came 

With  the  sharp  bayonets'  point  their  heart  appalling. 

Let  Ostrolenka,  joined  with  Praga,  say 

That  "  Poland's  Fourth  "  has  kept  its  vow  to-day. 


THE  LAST  TEN  OF  THE  FOURTH  REGIMENT. 

Yes,  many  manly  hearts  then  sank  to  rest, 
To  the  war-fiend  a  noble  offering  bringing ; 
Yet  to  his  oath  each  man  was  true,  and  prest 
On  to  the  end,  still  to  his  weapon  clinging ; 
Yes,  with  unloaded  gun  and  steady  eye, 
Poland's  "  Fourth  Regiment "  marched  on  to  die. 

O,  woe  to  us  !  "woe  to  our  land  forlorn  ! 

O,  ask  not  whence  or  how  this  misery  came  ! 

Woe,  woe  to  every  child  in  Poland  born ! 

Our  wounds  break  open  when  we  hear  her  name. 

They  bleed  afresh,  but  most  our  hearts  are  wrung 

When  "  Poland's  Fourth  "  is  named  by  any  tongue. 

And  ah  !  dear  brothers,  who  to  death  have  gone, 
But,  dying,  from  our  souls  shall  perish  never ; 
We,  who  still  live,  with  broken  hearts  move  on, 
Far  from  our  homes,  the  homes  now  lost  forever  ; 
And  pray  that  God  in  heaven  may  quickly  send 
The  last  of  "  Poland's  Fourth  "  a  blessed  end. 

From  Poland's  confines,  through  the  misty  air, 
Ten  soldiers  come,  and,  crossing  Prussia's  border, 
The  sentry  challenges  with,  "  Who  comes  there  ? " 
They  stand  in  silence.     He  repeats  the  order. 
At  last  one  says,  "  Out  of  a  thousand  men 
In  '  Poland's  Fourth  '  we  are  the  only  ten." 


XLVIII. 

ORPHIC   SAYINGS. 

1.  DESTINY. 

A  CCORDING  as  the  sun  and  planets  saw 
*"*•  From  their  bright  thrones  the  moment  of  thy 

birth, 

Such  is  thy  destiny  ;  and  by  that  law 
Thou  must  go  on  —  and  on  —  upon  the  earth. 
Such  must  thou  be.     Thyself  thou  canst  not  fly ; 
So  still  do  sibyls  speak,  have  prophets  spoken. 
The  living  stamp,  received  from  Nature's  die, 
No  time  can  change,  no  art  has  ever  broken. 

2.  CHANCE. 

Yet  through  these  limits,  sternly  fixed  to  bound  us, 
A  pleasing,  wandering  form  goes  with  and  round  us. 
Thou  art  not  lonely,  —  thou  hast  many  brothers,  — 
Learning  and  acting,  still  art  moved  by  others. 
Chance  takes  or  gives  the  thing  while  we  pursue  it,  — 
Our  life  's  a  trifle,  and  we  trifle  through  it. 
The  circling  years  go  round.     All  keeps  the  same  — 
The  lamp  stands  waiting  for  the  kindling  flame. 


ORPHIC  SAYINGS. 

3.   LOVE. 

It  comes  at  last.    From  Heaven  it  falls,  down  darting, 
Whither  from  ancient  chaos  up  it  flew  ; 
Around  it  floats  ;  now  near  and  then  departing, 
It  fans  the  brow  and  breast  the  spring  day  through  ; 
Mournful,  though  sweet,  a  saddened  bliss  imparting ; 
Rousing  vague  longings  for  the  fair  and  true. 
Whilst  most  hearts  fade  away,  unfixed,  alone ; 
The  noblest  is  devoted  to  the  One. 

4.   NECESSITY. 

And  so  once  more  't  is  as  the  planets  would ; 
Conditions,  limits,  laws,  our  fate  decide ; 
We  will  the  right,  because  we  see  we  should ; 
And  thus  by  our  own  hands  our  limbs  are  tied. 
The  heart  drives  out  its  hopes,  a  much-loved  brood  ; 
At  the  stern  must,  wishes  and  whims  subside ; 
So,  after  many  years  in  seeming  free, 
More  closely  fettered  than  at  first  are  we. 

5.   HOPE. 

Yet  shall  these  gates  unfold,  these  walls  give  way. 
These  barriers,  rooted  in  the  ancient  hill, 
Are  firm  as  primal  rock ;  but  rocks  decay. 
One  essence  moves  in  life  and  freedom  still ; 
Through  cloud,  and  mist,  and  storm,  to  upper  day, 
Lifts  the  sad  heart,  weak  thoughts,  and  fainting  will  ; 
Through  every  zone  she  ranges  unconfined ; 
She  waves  her  wing,  —  we  leave  time,  space,  behind  ! 


XLIX. 

IN   MEMORY   OF   SCHILLER. 

AND  so  it  happened  !     Bells  were  gayly  ringing 
O'er  all  the  peaceful  land,  and  everywhere 
New  happiness  appeared.     With  joyous  singing 

We  welcomed  home  the  youthful,  princely  pair. 
And  while  each  hour  new  throngs  and  crowds   was 

bringing 

These  national  festivities  to  share, 
On  the  wreathed  stage  we  all,  with  cheerful  hearts, 
Brought  out  once  more  the  "Homage  of  the  Arts." 

A  cry  of  fear  the  midnight  hush  has  broken ; 

Heavy  and  sad  the  mournful  tones  ascend  ; 
And  can  it  possibly  his  fate  betoken 

With  whose  existence  warmest  wishes  blend? 
Ah  !  with  what  words  shall  this  world-loss  be  spoken  ? 

•Can  death  have  made  of  so  much  life  an  end  ? 
Ah  !  in  our  midst  we  feel  a  frightful  rent. 
The  world  laments  him,  —  shall  not  we  lament  ? 

For  he  was  ours.     How  happily  surrounded, 
Each  favoring  hour  revealed  his  lofty  mind ; 


Iff  MEMORY  OF  SCHILLER. 

How  sometimes  grace  and  cheerfulness  abounded, 
In  mutual  talk,  with  earnestness  combined  ; 

And    sometimes    daring    thought,    with    power    un- 
bounded, 
Life's  deepest  sense  and  highest  plan  divined,  — 

All  in  rich  fruits  of  act  and  counsel  shown  ;  — 

This  have  we  oft  enjoyed,  experienced,  known. 

For  he  was  ours.     And  may  that  word  of  pride 
Drown  with  its  lofty  tone  pain's  bitter  cry  ! 

With  us,  the  fierce  storm  over,  he  could  ride 
At  anchor,  in  safe  harbor  fixedly. 

Yet  onward  did  his*  mighty  spirit  stride 
To  Beauty,  Goodness,  Truth,  eternally ; 

And  far  behind,  in  mists  dissolving  fast, 

That  which  confines  us  all,  the  Common,  passed. 

In  that  fair  garden  chamber,  through  the  night, 
He  watches  the  lone  stars'  unearthly  ray ; 

They  pour  in  sympathy  mysterious  light 
On  one  as  pure,  as  infinite,  as  they. 

There,  busied  earnestly  for  our  delight, 
He  strangely  alternates  the  hours  of  day ; 

And  welcomes  thus,  engaged  in  worthiest  toil, 

Those  darkening  hours  which  all  our  strength  despoil. 

Wave  after  wave,  the  floods  of  History  rolled 
Before  his  eye,  with  all  their  good  and  ill,  — 

Earth's  mighty  conquerors  and  warriors  bold, 
W7hose  armies  swept  the  world  with  reckless  will ; 

Each  act  most  good  and  high,  most  base  and  cold, 


IN  MEMORY  OF  SCHILLER. 

Clearly  distinguished  with  unerring  skill,  — 
Till  sinks  the  moon,  and,  while  the  darkness  flies, 
The  sun  mounts  upward  through  the  eastern  skies. 

Burned  in  his  cheeks,  with  ever-deepening  fire, 
The  spirit's  youth,  which  never  passes  by, — 

The  courage  which,  though  worlds  in  hate  conspire, 
Conquers  at  last  their  dull  hostility,  — 

The  lofty  faith,  which,  ever  mounting  higher, 
Now  presses  on,  now  waiteth  patiently, 

By  which  the  good  tends  ever  toward  his  goal, 

By  which  day  lights  at  last  the  generous  soul. 

And  yet,  thus  skilled,  and  armed  with  learning's  wand, 
The  Drama's  laws  he  willingly  obeyed, 

And  painted  here  how  Fate,  with  iron  hand, 

Turns  the  earth-axle  on  through  light  and  shade  ; 

And  many  a  work,  profound  and  nobly  planned, 
The  Art  and  Artist  more  illustrious  made, 

While  thus  the  flower  of  life's  best  efforts  giving, 

Yea,  life  itself,  to  this,  the  shade  of  living. 

Have  we  not  known  how  he,  with  giant  tread, 

Measured  the  mighty  round  of  thought  and  deed  ? 

With  cheerful  glance  in  that  dark  volume  read 
Of  times  and  lands,  each  nation's  law  and  creed  ? 

Yet  have  we  seen,  with  sympathy  and  dread, 
His  suffering  body  bowed,  his  spirit  bleed  ; 

Seen  in  cur  midst,  in  fair  but  mournful  years  ;  — 

For  he  was  ours,  —  his  pangs  with  pitying  tears. 

95 


IN  MEMORY  OF  SCHILLER. 

And  when  the  bitter  throng  of  pains  passed  over, 
And  his  bright  mind  had  momentary  peace, 

By  each  kind  art  our  friendship  could  discover 
Him  from  the  heavy  present  to  release, 

We  sought  to  quicken  the  fair  thoughts,  which  hover 
Round  the  sick  brain,  till  its  hot  throbbings  cease  ; 

And  happy  were  we  if,  ere  evening  fell, 

A  smile  or  laugh  repaid  our  efforts  well. 

With  life's  severest  law  too  soon  acquainted,    . 

For  early  death  by  early  suffering  armed, 
He  goes,  —  and  all  our  cup  of  joy  is  tainted  ; 

Now  that  affrights,  which  had  so  oft  alarmed. 
Yet  from  on  high,  transfigured  now  and  sainted, 

His  essence  bends,  by  death  untouched,  unharmed ; 
And  what  before  in  him  was  blamed  and  hated, 
Death  has  ennobled,  Time  has  consecrated. 

Many  there  were  who,  while  he  dwelt  on  earth, 
Hardly  due  honor  to  his  powers  would  pay, 

But  now  are  overshadowed  by  his  worth, 
Willingly  subject  to  his  magic  lay. 

Up  to  the  Highest  borne,  a  second  birth 

Links  him  with  all  the  best  that 's  passed  away. 

Then  honor  him  !     What  life  but  poorly  gave, 

An  after  world  shall  heap  above  his  grave. 

Thus  he  remains  with  us  —  remains,  though  gone  — 
For  ten  years  since  he  vanished  from  our  side ! 

Yet  all  by  him  first  taught,  through  him  made  known, 

The  world  receives  with  joy,  and  we  with  pride, 

96 


IN  MEMORY  OF  SCHILLER. 

And,  long  ago,  that  which  was  most  his  own 

Has  passed  through  countless  hearts  in  circle  wide. 
So,  like  a  comet,  vanishing  away, 
Infinite  light  he  blends  with  his  own  ray. 


L. 

THE   GONDOLA. 

~D  OCKS  like  a  cradle  on  the  wave  this  lightly  mov- 

J-^-        ing  bark ; 

Upon  the  top,  a  small  black  house,  most  like  a  coffin 

dark. 
Between  our  cradle  and  our  shroud  't  is  thus  we  float 

below, 
And  on  the  great  canal  of  life  so  carelessly  we  go. 


LI. 

MODERN    CATHOLICS  :   A   PARABLE. 

"T*  WAS  in  a  city  and  a  nation 

J-    Where  reigned  the  largest  toleration  ; 
Where  every  Christian  sect  was  found, 
With  equal  rights,  on  common  ground  ; 
Where  Church  Reformed  and  Church  of  Rome 
Rose  side  by  side,  each  quite  at  home, 
And  every  man  could  sing  and  pray 
And  worship  in  his  father's  way. 
We  boys  in  Luther's  church  were  bred, 
By  sermon  and  by  hymn-book  fed, 
Which  did  not  suit  us  half  as  well 
As  masses,  chants,  and  vesper-bell ; 
These  pleased  our  eye,  and  filled  our  ear, 
Much  pleasanter  to  see  and  hear. 

And  now,  since  boys  and  men,  by  fate 
Are  monkeys,  born  to  imitate  ; 
We  children  took  supreme  delight 
In  mimicking  each  priestly  rite. 
For  robes,  upon  our  shoulders  hung, 
Our  sisters'  borrowed  aprons  swung ; 


MODERN  CATHOLICS:  A   PARABLE. 

And  for  a  stole,  each  little  thief 
Took  mother's  lace-edged  handkerchief ; 
While  on  the  bishop's  head  there  sat, 
For  mitre,  a  gilt-paper  hat. 

Thus  dressed  in  fillet,  stole,  and  gown, 
We  marched,  all  day,  up  stairs  and  down  ; 
But  though  our  dresses  pleased  us  well, 
One  thing  was  wanted  still,  —  a  bell ! 
When  luckily  a  rope  we  see  : 
One  end  we  fastened  to  a  tree  ; 
Thus  was  the  belfry  quickly  made,  — 
Each  child,  in  turn,  the  sexton  played. 
No  bell,  indeed,  was  hanging  there, 
And  yet  we  pulled  as  if  there  were,  — 
We  rang  and  tolled,  pulled  hard  and  long, 
And,  as  we  pulled,  we  cried,  "  Ding,  clong. 

Forgotten  were  these  childish  plays 

Until,  within  these  latter  days, 

We  suddenly,  with  much  surprise, 

Behold  the  same  amusements  rise. 

Our  modern  Catholics  again 

Play  the  same  play,  with  might  and  main,  - 

A  web  of  poetry  they  weave, 

And  don't  believe,  but  make  believe. 


LIT. 


THEKLA:    A   SPIRIT'S   VOICE. 

WHERE  am  I,  askest  them,  and  where  ascended 
My  shadowy  nature  from  its  earthly  strife  ? 
Was  not  my  fate  fulfilled,  my  being  ended  ? 
I  loved,  and,  loving,  drained  the  cup  of  life. 

The  nightingales  in  melody  departed, 

Whose  swelling  notes  poured  rapture  on  the  spring : 
But  ask  not  where  they  fled,  the  tender-hearted  ! 

They  only  lived  their  note  of  love  to  sing. 

And  have  I  found  the  lost  one  ?    Yes,  believe  me, 

We  are  together,  ever  to  remain, 
Where  hopes  are  real,  and  faith  will  not  deceive  me,— 

A  land  where  tears  will  never  flow  again. 

And  in  that  land  of  union  thou  shalt  meet  us, 
If,  like  our  love,  thy  love  be  firm  and  true  ; 

And  there  the  father,  freed  from  sin,  shall  greet  us, 
Freed  from  the  hand  of  bloody  murder  too. 


THEKLA:    A   SPIRIT'S    VOICE. 

He  feels  he  was  by  no  false  thought  deceived, 
When  to  the  stars  he  looked  with  trust  and  fear. 

The  measure  which  he  gave  he  has  received,  — 
Faith  in  the  Holy  brings  the  Holy  near. 

There  shall  be  realized  each  word  of  love ; 

Faith  be  rewarded  there  in  sunlit  day,  — 
O  venture,  then  on  earth  to  dream  and  rove  ! 

Deep  meaning  often  lies  in  childish  play. 


LIII. 
THE   WAY  AND   THE   LIFE. 


WORLD  Redeemer,  Lord  of  glory !  as  of  old  to 
zealous  Paul 
Thou  didst  come  in  sudden  splendor,  and  from  out 

the  cloud  didst  call ; 

As  to  Mary,  in  the  garden,  did  thy  risen  form  appear,  — 
Come,  arrayed  in  heavenly  beauty ;  come  and  speak, 
and  I  will  hear  ! 


"  Hast  thou  not,"  the  Master  answered,  —  "  hast  thou 

not  my  written  Word  ? 
Hast  thou  not,  to  go  before  thee,  the  example  of  the 

Lord?" 
—  Blessed  one !  thy  word  of  wisdom  is  too  high  for 

me  to  know, 
And  my  feet  are  all  too  feeble  for  the  path  where  thou 

didst  go. 

Doubts  torment  me  while  I  study  ;  all  my  reading  and 

my  thinking 
Lead  away  from  firm  conviction,  and  in  mire  my  feet 

are  sinking. 

103 


THE    WA  Y  AND    THE  LIFE. 

Then  I  turn  to  works  of  duty,  —  here  thy  law  is  very 

plain,  — 
But  I  look  at  thy  example,  strive  to  follow,  —  strive 

in  vain. 

Let  me  gaze,  then,  at  thy  glory :  change  to  flesh  this 
heart  of  stone  ! 

Let  the  light  illume  my  darkness  that  around  the  apos- 
tle shone ! 

Cold  belief  is  not  conviction,  rules  are  impotent  to 
move ; 

Let  me  see  thy  heavenly  beauty,  let  me  learn  to  trust 
and  love. 

In  my  heart  the  voice  made  answer  :  "  Ask  not  for  a 

sign  from  heaven. 
In  the  gospel  of  thy  Saviour  life,  as  well  as  light,  is 

given. 

Ever  looking  unto  Jesus,  all  his  glory  thou  shalt  see, 
From  thy  heart  the  veil  be  taken,  and  the  Word  made 

clear  to  thee. 

"  Love  the  Lord,  and  thou  shalt  see  him  ;  do  his  will, 
and  thou  shalt  know 

How  the  spirit  lights  the  letter, — how  a  little  child 
may  go 

Where  the  wise  and  prudent  stumble,  —  how  a  heav- 
enly glory  shines 

In  his  acts  of  love  and  mercy,  from  the  gospel's  sim- 
plest lines." 


LIV. 

AN    ITALIAN    SPRING    TWO     THOUSAND 
YEARS   AGO. 


MELTS    to   spring   the  bitter  winter,  with  glad 
change  from  day  to  day  ; 
Through  the  sand  the  creaking  pulleys  drag  the  ves- 

sels to  the  bay  ; 
Ploughmen  leave  the  chimney-corner  ;  from  their  stalls 

the  cattle  go, 

Browzing  in  the  grassy  meadow,  white  no  more  with 
frost  and  snow. 


Now,  amid  the  showers  of  moonlight,  on  the  turf  the 

maidens  dance. 
Are  they  girls  ?  or  with  the  Graces  does  the  Queen 

of  Love  advance  ? 
Hear  their  feet,  with  throbs  alternate,  shake  the  earth 

in  joyous  rhyme  ! 
Hear,  below,  the  burning  Cyclops  on  their  anvils  beat- 

ing time  ! 


AN  ITALIAN  SPRING. 

Hasten,  brothers  !   bind  your  foreheads  with  spring 

flowers  and.  myrtles  green  ! 
For  the  frozen  sods  have   crumbled,  and  the  buds 

appear  between. 
Hasten,  brothers,  to  the  forest,  and  within  some  shady 

dell 
Offer  there  a  lamb  to  Faunus,  or  the  kid  he  loves  so 

well. 

Steadily  pale  Death  approaches,  bringing  each  an 
equal  fate, 

Knocking  on  the  cottage-lattice,  knocking  at  the  pal- 
ace-gate. 

Vast  ambitions,  O  my  Sextus,  do  not  suit  our  little 
day. 

Night  and  Death  are  moving  toward  us  ;  use  our  sun- 
light while  we  may. 

Kings  of  wine  will  not  be  chosen  at  our  banquets, 

when  we  go 
To  the  regions  unsubstantial  and  the  mighty  Powers 

below ! 
Then  your  little  pet  will  leave  you,  —  he  with  whom 

the  striplings  play, 
And  to  whom,  a  little  later,  all  the  maidens'  hearts 

shall  stray. 


LV. 


AN    ITALIAN   WINTER    TWO    THOUSAND 
YEARS   AGO. 

SEE  how,  at  last,  even  old  Soracte  's  covered 
Up  to  its  summit  with  deep-fallen  snow  ! 
The  bending  woods  beneath  the  drifts  are  smothered  ; 
And  rivers  stand,  held  fast  by  ice,  below. 

But  in  our  house  let  winter  be  a  fable  ! 

Pile  up  the  logs,  and  drive  the  frost  afar, 
And  bring,  O  Thaliarchus,  to  our  table, 

Wine  four  years  old,  within  its  two-eared  jar. 

And,  for  the  rest,  leave  all  to  those  High  Powers 
Who,  when  the  storm-lashed  surges  rise  and  fall, 

And  the  old  trees  rock  in  their  leafy  bowers, 
Speak,  and  a  sudden  silence  comes  to  all. 

Do  thou,  clear  boy,  indulge  no  wintry  sorrow, 
But  give  to  dance  and  song  youth's  happy  day ; 

Ask  not  what  darker  fate  may  come  to-morrow  ; 
Count  as  clear  gain  all  good  you  find  to-day. 


AN  ITALIAN  WINTER. 

Let  youth,  light-hearted,  have  its  hour  of  joy, 
Its  manly  games,  its  long  day's  tramp  and  walk, 

And  tender  whispers  when  the  girl  and  boy 
Meet  with  shy  footsteps  for  their  twilight  talk. 

For  then  the  child,  within  her  corner  hidden, 
Is  by  her  stifled  laughter  soon  betrayed 

To  him  who  boldly  dares,  but  half  forbidden, 
Kiss  on  her  arm  the  unreluctant  maid. 


LVI. 


A   COQUETTE   OF   OLD   ROME. 

WHAT  perfumed  boy  beside  you  now  reposes 
In  some  cool  shade,  with  eager,  mad  caresses  ; 
While  you,  to  please  him,  'mid  the  dropping  roses, 
Let  fall  your  golden  tresses  ? 

Artfully  artless  !  how  the  child  will  wonder, 
When  this  fair  day  of  love,  so  bright,  so  warm, 

With  black  clouds  overcast,  and  bursting  thunder, 
Shall  change  to  sudden  storm  ! 

Facile  and  tender  when  her  whim  it  pleases, 
He  thinks,  fond  fool,  this  golden  hour  will  last ; 

But  sooner  hope  to  fix  the  faithless  breezes 
Than  hold  her  to  her  past ! 

But  I,  experienced  in  each  subtle  motive 

Which  brings  such  shifting  gales  o'er  love's  wild 
sky, 

Hang  in  the  Temple,  as  an  offering  votive, 
My  sea-drenched  panoply. 


LVII. 

A   SIMPLE   FEAST. 

MY  boy,  on  me  no  Persian  luxury  waste, 
Costly  bark  chaplets  are  not  to  my  taste  ; 
Nor  to  far  forest  thickets  do  thou  haste, 
Where  one  rose  lingers. 

Plain  myrtle  suits  me,  as  beneath  this  vine 
In  nickering  light  and  shade  I  drink  my  wine  ; 
Suits  thee,  as  well,  dear  boy,  in  wreaths  to  twine 
With  idle  fingers. 


LVIII. 
PRAYER   OF   MARY   QUEEN   OF   SCOTS. 

(WRITTEN   IN    HER  BOOK  OF  DEVOTIONS  JUST  BEFORE  HER, 
EXECUTION.) 

"  O  DOMINE  DEUS  !  speravi  in  te  ; 
O  care  mi  Jesu  !  mine  libera  me. 
In  dura  catena,  in  misera  poena, 

Desidero  te. 

Languendo,  gemendo,  et  genuflectendo, 
Adoro,  imploro,  ut  liberes  me  !  " 


O  MASTER  and  Maker!  my  hope  is  in  thee. 
My  Jesus,  dear  Saviour !  now  set  my  soul  free. 
From  this  my  hard  prison,  my  spirit  uprisen, 

Soars  upward  to  thee. 

Thus  moaning,  and  groaning,  and  bending  the  knee, 
I  adore,  and  implore  that  thou  liberate  me. 


LIX. 

INVOCATION  TO  BEAUTY  AND 
LOVE. 

WITH   OTHER   SPECIMENS    FROM    LUCRETIUS. 

MOTHER  of  Rome,  delight  of  Gods  and  Men  ! 
Divinest  Beauty !  —  under  drifting  stars, 
Or  on  the  Ocean,  white  with  numerous  sails, 
Or  on  the  Earth,  yellow  with  waves  of  corn, 
Still  art  thou  evident,  and  still  adored ! 
Drawn  by  thy  love,  all  creatures  move  and  live ; 
And,  at  thy  coming,  storms  subside,  and  clojuds 
Pass  from  the  blue  of  Heaven,  —  the  happy  waves 
Laugh  round  the  sea,  —  the  flowers  laugh  back  from 

earth, 

And  all  the  joyful  sky  is  full  of  light. 
Soon  as  spring  days  are  mellow  with  warm  air, 
And  south-winds  whisper  to  the  sleeping  seeds, 
A  thousand  birds  proclaim,  in  tender  song 
From  loving  hearts,  the  coming  of  their  Queen ! 
Joy  fills  the  hearts  of  all  who  swim  the  stream, 
Leap  in  the  meadow,  or,  in  wood  or  sea, 
On  the  lone  mountain,  in  the  rushing  flood, 
Are  warmed  again  by  thee  to  life  and  love. 


FROM  LUCRETIUS. 

Therefore,  O  royal  Beauty  !  since  thy  power 

Sweeps  through  all  nature,  —  since,  without  thy  might 

And  great  attractive  influence,  nothing  fair 

And  nothing  sweet  or  lovely  ever  comes,  — 

I  long  to  have  thee  with  me  while  I  write; 

My  helper,  while  I  sing,  in  measured  verse, 

Nature,  —  its  Substance,  Source,  Law,  Meaning,  End. 


SAFE,  on  the  solid  land,  't  is  sweet  to  see 

The  tumult  and  the  terror  of  the  storm, 

When  mountain  waves  pitch  headlong  on  the  shore, 

And  helpless  vessels  struggle  with  the  gale. 

Not  that  we  take  a  pleasure  in  their  pain, 

But  in  their  pain  we  realize  our  peace. 

'T  is  sweet,  in  safety,  to  behold  the  field 

Where  mighty  armies  meet  to  fight  and  die. 

But,  —  sweetest  of  all  sights,  —  secure  ourselves, 

In  the  grand  calm  of  science,  to  survey 

The  passions  and  the  struggles  of  the  crowd, 

Seeking  distinction,  admiration,  power  \ 

Spending  long  days  of  care  and  sleepless  nights 

For  what  ?    A  heap  of  gold,  —  an  empty  name  ! 

O  wretched  human  minds  !     O  blinded' hearts  ! 
To  waste  in  toils  like  these  your  little  day, 
When  all  that  Nature  asks  is  only  this,  — 
A  body  free  from  pain,  a  mind  from  care. 


To  crowd  around  an  altar,  and  to  bend 
Humbly,  with  veiled  face,  before  a  stone, 


FROM  LUCRETIUS. 

To  fling  ourselves  upon  fhe  ground,  with  hands 

Spread  out  in  vows  to  inattentive  gods,  — 

To  patter  over  countless  prayers,  to  pour 

The  blood  of  harmless  lambs  upon  the  shrine,  — 

This  is  not  piety ;  but  rather  this, 

To  look  on  all  events  with  equal  mind. 

Ah  !  when  we  see  the  mighty  dome  above, 
The  midnight  firmament  thick-set  with  stars,  — 
Heaven's  great  highway,  where  march  the  sun  and 

moon,  — 

There  comes  to  us  a  natural  human  doubt, 
If  the  Almighty  and  Eternal  Gods 
May  not,  perhaps,  move  all  these  shining  stars  ! 
Our  very  poverty  of  reason  strikes 
Fear  in  our  heart  of  some  mysterious  powers 
From    whom    these   worlds    arise,    by    whom    they 

cease,  — 

Fear,  lest  the  deep  foundations  of  the  earth 
Shall  shake  beneath  the  forces  of  the  skies, 
Unless,  held  up  by  some  diviner  hand, 
The  Universe,  in  its  eternal  youth, 
May  move  superior  to  decay  and  change. 


THE  sacred  sides  of  Pindus  I  ascend 

By  paths  before  untrod ;  with  joy  I  drink 

From    springs    before    unknown,    plucking    strange 

flowers 

With  which  no  bard  before  has  crowned  his  brow. 
The  truths  I  teach  shall  free  the  human  soul 


FROM  LUCRETIUS. 

From  superstitious  fears,  "and  fill  with  light 
The  darkest  regions  in  the  mind  of  man. 
And  as  the  wise  physician  tempts  the  child 
To  drink  the  bitter  draught  within  the  cup 
By  putting  honey  all  around  its  brim, 
So  I  adorn  my  sad  philosophy, 
Hard  and  repellent  to  the  common  mind, 
With  the  sweet  voice  and  honey  of  my  song, 
Thus  to  detain  men's  thoughts,  until  they  know 
The  grandeur  and  the  good  of  all  I  teach. 


LX. 

A    BEAUTY   OF    ANCIENT    ROME 

"  ILLAM,  quidquid  agit,  quoquo  vestigia  movit, 
Componit  furtim,  subsequiturque  Decor. 

Seu  solvit  crines,  fusis  decet  esse  capillis ; 
Seu  comsit,  comtis  est  veneranda  comis. 

Urit,  seu  Tyria  voluit  procedere  palla ; 
Urit,  seu  nivea  Candida  veste  venit." 


WHERE'ER  she  goes,  whate'er  she  does,  in  si- 
lence, speech,  tears,  laughter ; 
Soft  grace  attends  her  and  befriends,  goes  with  her, 

follows  after. 
She   drives   us   crazy  when    her  locks   are   floating, 

harum-scarum, 
And  then  we  say  that  that 's  the  way,  the  only  way 

to  wear  'em. 
But  if  brushed  smooth,  why  then  we  love  the  glory 

trembling  o'er  her, 
A  halo  round  the  shapely  head,  half  tempting  to  adore 

her. 


A   BEAUTY  OF  ANCIENT  ROME. 

She  takes  all  hearts  in  grand  toilette,  when  dressed  a 

quatre  epingles, 
Bewitches  in  her  morning  dress,  of  muslin  from  the 

mangle. 


In  justice  to  Tibullus,  I  have  inserted  the  lines  which  I  have  here 
imitated,  and  certainly  modernized.  I  once  showed  this  translation  to 
my  friend,  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  who  remarked  that  I  had  turned  this 
stately  Roman  beauty  into  a  French  grisette.  The  criticism  is  just ; 
but  I  insert  my  lines  for  the  sake  of  the  first  couplet,  which  may  call 
attention  to  the  exquisite  grace  of  the  original. 

J.  F.  C. 


LXI. 

TO    SLEEP. 

'  SOMNE  veni ;  et  quanquam  certissima  Mortis  imago  es, 
Consortem  cupio  te  tamen  esse  tori ; 
Hue  ades,  haud  abiture  cito :  nam  sic  sine  vita 
Vivere  quam  suave  est  —  sic  sine  morte  mori !  " 


COME,  Sleep!   though  thou  most  like  to  Death 
appear  — 

Yet  come,  and  share  the  couch  on  which  I  lie. 
Come  soon,  stay  long.     I  hold  it  sweet  and  dear 
Thus  without  life  to  live,  thus  without  death  to  die. 


After  this  version  had  been  written  many  years,  and  read  by  many 
persons,  another  translation  appeared  in  a  London  Magazine,  in  which 
the  last  line  was  identical  with  that  above.  This  is  one  of  those 
curious  coincidences  which  sometimes  are  found  in  literary  work,  and 
which  give  rise  to  the  charge  of  plagiarism. 


LXII. 

"ERECTUS,    NON    ELATUS." 

PROSPERA  non  laetam  fecere,  nee  aspera  tristem ; 
Aspera  risus  erant,  prospera  terror  erant. 
Non  decor  efficet  fragilem,  non  sceptra  superbum : 
Sola  potens  humilis,  sola  pudica  decens." 


T  N  gladness  timid,  but  in  sadness  brave ; 
•»-    In  trials  smiling,  but  in  triumphs  grave ; 
Strong,  but  not  proud ;  though  beautiful,  not  weak  : 
No  queen  so  royal,  and  no  child  so  meek. 


LXIII. 
THE    MOHAMMEDAN    SAINTS 

RABIA,  sick  upon  her  bed, 
By  two  saints  was  visited,  — 

Holy  Malik,  Hassan  wise  ; 
Men  of  mark  in  Moslem  eyes. 

Hassan  said,  "  Whose  prayer  is  pure 
Will  God's  chastisements  endure." 

Malik,  from  a  deeper  sense, 
Uttered  his  experience  :  — 

"  He  who  loves  his  Master's  choice 
Will  in  chastisement  rejoice" 

Rabia  saw  some  selfish  will 
In  their  maxims  lingering  still, 

And  replied :  "  O  men  of  grace  ! 
He  who  sees  his  Master's  face 

"  Will  not  in  his  prayer  recall 
That  he  is  chastised  at  all !  " 


LXIV. 
"HE    WHO    ASKS,    RECEIVES." 

"  A  LLAH,  Allah  !  "  cried  the  sick  man,  racked  with 

•^*-         pain  the  long  night  through  ; 
Till  with  prayer  his  heart  was  tender,  till  his  lips  like 
honey  grew. 

But  at  morning  came  the  Tempter;  said,  "  Call  louder, 

child  of  pain ! 
See  if  Allah  ever  hear,  or  answer  '  Here  am  I '  again." 

Like  a   stab,  the  cruel  cavil  through  his  brain  and 

pulses  went; 
To  his  heart  an  icy  coldness,  to  his  brain  a  darkness, 

sent. 

Then  before   him  stands    Elias ;   says,  "My  child! 

why  thus  dismayed? 
Dost  repent  thy  former  fervor?     Is  thy  soul  of  prayer 

afraid  ?  " 

"  Ah  !  "  he  cried,  "  I  Ve  called  so  often  ;  never  heard 

the  '  Here  am  I ' ; 
And  I  thought,  God  will  not  pity,  will  not,  turn  on  me. 

his  eye." 


"HE    WHO  ASKS,   RECEIVES." 

Then  the  grave  Elias  answered,  "  God  said,  '  Rise, 

Elias,  go,  — 
Speak  to  him,  the  sorely  tempted;  lift  him  from  his 

gulf  of  woe. 

" '  Tell  him  that  his  very  longing  is  itself  an  answering 

cry; 
That  his  prayer  "  Come,  gracious  Allah  "  is  my  answer^ 

"Here  am  I.'" 

"  Every  inmost  aspiration  is  God's  angel  undefiled ; 
And  in  every  '  O  my  Father ! '  slumbers  deep  a  '  Here, 
my  child!'" 


LXV. 
THE    CALIPH    AND    SATAN. 

T  N  heavy  sleep  the  Caliph  lay, 

•*-   When  some  one  called,  "  Arise  and  pray  ! ; 

The  angry  Caliph  cried,  "Who  dare 
Rebuke  his  king  for  slighted  prayer  ?  " 

Then,  from  the  corner  of  the  room, 

A  voice  cut  sharply  through  the  gloom  :  — 

"  My  name  is  Satan.     Rise  !  obey 
Mohammed's  law :  awake  and  pray." 

"  Thy  -words  are  good,"  the  Caliph  said, 
"  But  their  intent  I  somewhat  dread ; 

"  For  matters  cannot  well  be  worse, 

Than  when  the  thief  says,  '  Guard  your  purse. 

"  I  cannot  trust  thy  counsel,  friend, 
It  surely  hides  some  wicked  end." 


THE   CALIPH  AND  SATAN. 

Said  Satan :  "  Near  the  throne  of  God, 
In  ages  past,  we  devils  trod ; 

"  Angels  of  light,  to  us  was  given 

To  guide  each  wandering  soul  to  heaven. 

"  Not  wholly  lost  is  that  first  love, 
Nor  those  pure  tastes  we  knew  above. 

"  Roaming  across  a  continent, 
The  Tartar  moves  his  shifting  tent, 

"  But  never  quite  forgets  the  day 
When  in  his  father's  arms  he  lay ; 

"  So  we,  once  bathed  in  love  divine, 
Recall  the  taste  of  that  rich  wine. 

"  God's  finger  rested  on  my  brow,  — 
That  magic  touch,  I  feel  it  now ! 

"  I  fell,  't  is  true,  —  O,  ask  not  why ! 
For  still  to  God  I  turn  my  eye ; 

"  It  was  a  chance  by  which  I  fell; 
Another  takes  me  back  from  Hell. 

"  'T  was  but  my  envy  of  mankind, 
The  envy  of  a  loving  mind. 

"  Jealous  of  men,  I  could  not  bear 
God's  love  with  this  new  race  to  share. 


THE   CALIPH  AND  SATAN. 

"  But  yet  God's  tables  open  stand, 
His  guests  flock  in  from  every  land. 

"  Some  kind  act  toward  the  race  of  men 
May  toss  us  into  Heaven  again. 

"  A  game  of  chess  is  all  we  see,  — 
And  God  the  player,  pieces  we. 

"  White,  black,  —  queen,  pawn,  —  't  is  all  the  same, 
For  on  both  sides  he  plays  the  game. 

"  Moved  to  and  fro,  from  good  to  ill, 
We  rise  and  fall  as  suits  his  will." 

*"  *. 

The  Caliph  said :  "  If  this  be  so 
I  know  not,  but  thy  guile  I  know ; 

"  For  how  can  I  thy  words  believe, 
When  even  God  thou  didst  deceive. 

"  A  sea  of  lies  art  thou,  —  our  sin 
Only  a  drop  that  sea  within." 

"  Not  so,"  said  Satan ;  "  I  serve  God,  — 
His  angel  now,  and  now  his  rod. 

"In  tempting  I  both  bless  and  curse, 
Make  good  men  better,  bad  men  worse. 

"  Good  coin  is  mixed  with  bad,  my  brother, 
I  but  distinguish  one  from  th'  other." 
125 


THE   CALIPH  AND  SA  TAN. 

"Granted,"  the  Caliph  said;  "but  still 
You  never  tempt  to  good,  but  ill. 

"  Tell,  then,  the  truth,  for  well  I  know 
You  come  as  my  most  deadly  foe." 

Loud  laughed  the  fiend.     "  You  know  me  well 
Therefore  my  purpose  I  will  tell. 

"  If  you  had  missed  your  prayer,  I  knew 
A  swift  repentance  would  ensue  ; 

"  And  such  repentance  would  have  been 
A  good,  outweighing  far  the  sin. 

«r 

"  I  chose  this  humbleness  divine, 
Born  out  of  fault,  should  not  be  thine  ; 

"  Preferring  prayers  elate  with  pride, 
To  sin  with  penitence  allied." 


LXVI. 
AND    THE    WORM. 


HOLY  Moses,  man  of  God,  came  to  his  tent  one 
day, 
And  called  his  wife  Safurja,  and  his  children  from 

their  play  : 
"  O  sweetest  orphaned  children  !     O  dearest  widowed 

wife  ! 
We  meet,  dear  ones,  no  more  on  earth,  for  this  day 

ends  my  life. 

Jehovah  sent  his  angel  down,  and  told  me  to  prepare  —  " 
Then  swooned  Safurja  on  the  ground  ;  the  children, 

in  despair, 
Said,  weeping  :  "  Who  will  care  for  us  when  you,  dear 

father,  go  ?  " 
And  Moses  wept  and  sobbed  aloud  to  see  his  children's 

woe. 
But  then  Jehovah  spake  from  heaven:    "And  dost 

thou  fear  to  die  ? 
And  dost  thou  love  this  world  so  well  that  thus  I  hear 

thee  cry  ?  " 
And  Moses  said  :  "  I  fear  not  death.     I  leave  this 

world  with  joy  ; 

127 


MOSES  AND    THE    WORM. 

Yet  cannot  but  compassionate  this  orphan  girl  and 

boy." 
"  In  whom,  then,  did  thy  mother  trust,  when,  in  thy 

basket-boat, 
An  infant  on  the   Nile's  broad  stream,  all  helpless 

thou  didst  float'? 
In  whom  didst  thou  thyself  confide  when  by  the  raging 

sea 
The  host  of  Pharaoh  came  in  sight  ?  "     Then  Moses 

said  :  "  In  Thee! 

In  Thee,  O  Lord,  I  now  confide,  as  I  confided  then." 
And  God  replied :  "  Go  to  the  shore !     Lift  up  thy 

staff  again." 
Then  Moses  lifted  up  his  rod.     The  sea  rolled  wide 

away, 
And  in  the  midst  a  mighty  rock,  black  and  uncovered, 

lay. 
"  Smite  thou  the  rock  !  "  said  God  again.     The  rock 

was  rent  apart, 
And  then  appeared  a  little  worm,  close  nestled  in  its 

heart. 
The  worm  cried :  "  Praise  to  God  on  high,  who  hears 

his  creatures'  moan, 
Nor  did  forget  the  little  worm  concealed  within  the 

stone." 
"  If  I  remember,"  said  the  Lord,  "  the  worm  beneath 

the  sea, 
Shall  I  forget  thy  children,  who  love  and  honor  me  ?  " 


LXVII. 
THE    USE    OF    WEALTH. 

T T 7EALTH  is  a  means,  and  life  the  end; 

*  *     You  lose  your  hoard,  have  what  you  spend. 
For  that  unhappy  mortal  pray 
Who  never  learned  to  give  away. 
His  heaped-up  wealth  made  him  its  slave; 
He  did  not  use  who  never  gave. 


LXVIII. 
KNOWLEDGE    AND    ACTION. 

OCOLD  of  heart,  but  wise  of  head, 
Whose  knowledge  barren  is  and  dead  ! 
Thou,  like  the  statue  in  thy  porch, 
Art  blind,  though  holding  forth  a  torch ; 
Or  like  the  ass,  with  solemn  looks, 
Weighed  down  beneath  a  load  of  books. 


LXIX. 

EASTERN    HUMANITY. 

YOUR  conquered  foe  do  not  despise, 
But  treat  him  nobly  while  you  can ; 
In  every  bone  some  marrow  lies, 
In  every  jacket  there  's  a  man. 


LXX. 

"TIMEO    DANAOS." 

HEAR  what  the  bad  man  counsels,  carefully, 
Then  quickly  go,  and  do  the  opposite ; 
If  on  the  left  he  shows  a  straight  smooth  way, 
Take  thou  the  steep  wild  road  upon  the  right. 


LXXI. 


TO    PHILANTHROPISTS. 

LOVE  with  strength  as  well  as  meekness ; 
Love  with  firmness,  not  with  weakness ; 
Probe  the  wound  and  scarify, 
Before  the  balsam  you  apply. 
Be  so  benevolent,  I  pray, 
As  to  drive  the  wolf  away ; 
Love  him,  if  you  will,  but  keep 
Some  love  also  for  the  sheep. 


LXXII. 


A    LOVER'S    ECONOMY. 

WHILE  writing  verses  for  my  love,  I  looked  up 
from  the  paper, 
And  there  she  stood  !     I  rose  in  haste,  and  overturned 

the  taper. 
"  How  careless  to  put  out  the  light ! "  she  said.     "  Is 

it  surprising," 

I  answered,  "  that  I  quenched  my  lamp  when  I  saw 
the  sun  arising  ?  " 


LXXIII. 


SLOW    AND    SURE. 

T  N  forty  years  of  steady  work,  so  Eastern  travellers 

say, 

The  Chinese  make  a  porcelain  cup  of  Oriental  clay, — 
In  Bagdad  they  form  easily  a  hundred  in  a  day; 
But  princes   seek  and   prize  the  one,  —  the  other 's 

thrown  away. 
The  chicken  walks  from  out  its  shell,  and  goes  its  food 

to  find, 
While  helpless  lies  for  months  and  years  the  child  of 

human  kind ; 
Which  yet,  by  gradual  growth,  o'ertops  all  else   in 

strength  and  mind. 
O  slow  of  thought !  remember  this,  —  be  thankful  and 

resigned. 


LXXIV. 

UNPRODUCTIVE    INDUSTRY. 

T   SAW  a  farmer  plough  his  land,  who  never  came 

to  sow ; 

I  saw  a  student,  filled  with  truth,  to  practise  never  go ; 
In  land  or  mind  I  never  saw  the  ripened  harvest  grow. 


LXXV. 
WHAT    THE    WORLDLY-WISE    ARE    FOR. 

WOULDST  learn  to  make  of  leathern  skins 
Good  clothes  that  men  may  wear  them, 
Take  not  as  teacher  Master  Wolf, 

His  business  is  to  tear  them. 
And  wouldst  thou,  brother,  help  thy  race 

To  grow  in  truth  and  joy, 
Avoid  the  worldly-wise,  who  love 
To  rend  and  to  destroy. 


LXXVI. 

WARNING    TO    OFFICE-SEEKERS. 

A     GEM  which  falls  within  ttoe  mire  will  still  a  gem 
•£*•  remain ; 

Men's  eyes  turn  downward  to  the  earth,  and  search 

for  it  with  pain. 
But  dust,  though  whirled  aloft  to  heaven,  continues 

dust  alway,  — 
More  base  and  noxious  in  the  air  than  when  on  earth 

it  lay. 


LXXVII. 

HOW    TO    GET    RID    OF    BORES. 

A  SCHOLAR  sought  his  teacher, —  "  What  shall 
I  do?  "said  he, 
"  With  these  unasked-for  visitors,  who  steal  my  time 

from  me  ? " 
The  learned  master  answered :  "  Lend  money  to  the 

poor, 
And  borrow  money  of  the  rich,  —  they  '11  trouble  you 

no  more." 
When  Islam's  army  marches,  send  a  beggar  in  the 

van, 
And  the  frightened  hosts  of  Infidels  will  run  to  Hin- 

dostan. 


LXXVIII. 

"CELA    DEPEND." 

A  TYRANT  asked  a  Dervish,  "  Tell  me,  pray, 
Ought  I  to  rise  for  prayers  at  break  of  day  ? ' 
"  For  you  to  sleep  till  noon,"  said  he,  "  were  best ; 
Then  for  six  hours,  at  least,  mankind  would  rest." 


LXXIX. 


UNSUITABLE    BOUNTY. 
« 

THE  Sultan  in  his  fever  cried,  "  If  Allah  lets  me 
live, 

In  gratitude,  to  holy  men  a  purse  of  gold  I  '11  give." 

So  said,  so  done.     He  soon  grew  well  and  sent  his 
servant  out, 

A  hundred  Dirams  in  his  purse,  to  hunt  their  saint- 
ships  out. 

The  servant,  wise  beyond  his  years,  returned  at  even- 
ing late  ; 

He  kissed  the  purse  and  laid  it  down,  and  said,  "  From 
gate  to  gate 

I  searched  all  day,  nor  in  the  town  a  holy  man  could 
find." 

"  Why !  what  a  story ! "  said  the  King.     "  Already  in 
my  mind 

I  can  recall  a  hundred  who  live  not  far  from  us." 

"O  mighty  lord!"  the  youth  replied,  "thy  servant 
argued  thus ; 

That  holy  men  would  never  take  my  money,   and 
again 

That  those  who  took  my  money  could  not  be  holy 
men." 

The  Sultan  smiled,  and,  pondering,  said :  "  The  saucy 
fellow  's  right. 

A  bag  of  gold  is  not  the  thing  to  give  an  anchorite  !  " 
135 


LXXX. 


MAN    THE    INSTRUMENT    OF    GOD'S    WILL. 

GOD  gives  to  man  the  power  to  strike  or^iss  you ; 
r  It  was  not  thy  foe  who  did  the  thing. 
The  arrow  from  the  bow  may  seem  to  issue, 
But  we  know  an  archer  drew  the  string. 


LXXXI. 


RESULTS    OF    A    BAD    REPUTATION. 

ONCE  I  saw  a  fox,  in  terror,  running  hastily  away. 
"Whence,"  said  I,  "good  Master  Reynard,  this 

precipitate  dismay  ? " 
"  Stop  me  not !     I  heard  the  master  give  command  to 

kill  an  ox." 

"  Well,  and  what  is  that  to  you,  sir  ?    What 's  a  bul- 
lock to  a  fox  ?  " 
"  Ah  ! "  said  he,  "  my  foes  are  many ;  and  if  one  should 

say,  '  See  there  ! 
That 's  an  ox ! '  the  resj  would  kill  me.     For  the  error 

who  would  care  ? 
Malice  rides  an  Arab  courser,  strikes  his  blow  as 

sure  as  fate. 

Justice,  travelling  in  his  carriage,  mostly  comes  an 
hour  too  late." 

.36 


LXXXII. 
JUDGE    NOT. 

T  N  my  youth,  as  I  remember,  I  was  scrupulous  and 

•*-         careful ; 

Every  sacred  rite  performing;  fasting,  watching,  anx- 
ious, prayerful. 

So  one  night,  the  whilst  my  father  (Allah  bless  him !) 
watch  was  keeping, 

On  the  floor  and  on  the  divans  travellers  around  were 
sleeping. 

I  nor  closed  my  eyes  nor  nodded,  but  beside  the 
glimmering  taper 

Held  the  precious  Koran  open,  fixed  my  eyes  upon 
the  paper. 

Still  they  slept;  till,  over-zealous,  thus  I  uttered  my 
objections : 

"  See,  my  father,  no  one  rises  to  perform  his  genu- 
flections ; 

Not  a  man  goes  through  his  ritual,  not  a  man  his 
prayer  has  said ; 

Prone  upon  the  floor  extended,  you  might  think  they 
all  were  dead." 

"Emanation  of  your  father,"  said  the  good  man, 
"  cease  your  railings ; 

Better  sleep  yourself  than  waken  to  calumniate  human 
failings." 


LXXXIII. 
'GENEROSITY. 


ONCE  to  a  hermit's  cell  there  came  a  thief, 
But  from  its  empty  walls  he  turned  in  grief. 
The  hermit,  sad  that  he  went  sad  away, 
Tossed  him  the  sleeping-rug  on  which  he  lay. 
Thus,  even  in  the  battle's  heat  and  strain 
The  hero  spares  his  foe  superfluous  pain. 


LXXXIV. 

SELF-SATISFACTION. 

ONCE  I  heard  a  Jew  and  Moslem  arguing  with 
"Yes!  "and  "No!" 
"  May  I,"  yells  the  child  of  Moses,  "  trust  in  Islam  if 

it 's  so." 
"  If  it  is  not,"  screams  the  other,  "  I  will  turn  a  Jew 

to-night." 
Then    I    thought,    "  How    every    nation    takes    for 

granted  it  is  right! 
Should  the  Lord  destroy-all  knowledge  in  each  people 

creed,  and  school, 

Not  a  man  in  this  dilemma  e'er  would  own  himself  a 
fool ! " 

138 


LXXXV. 
THE  MOTE  AND  THE  BEAM. 

'"TO  a  darning-needle  once  exclaimed  the  kitchen 

sieve, 
"  You  've  a  hole  right  through  your  body,  and  I  wonder 

how  you  live  !  " 
But  the  needle  (who  was  sharp)  replied,  "  I  too  have 

wondered 
That  you  notice  my  one  hole  when  in  you  there  are 

a  hundred." 

LXXXVI. 

LOST    ILLUSIONS. 

SHE  sat  enveloped  in  her  veil.     I  thought  she  must 
be  fair  and  young ; 
I  judged  Jiini  one  of  mighty  parts,  he  spoke  with  such 

a  fluent  tongue. 

But  when  the  veil  was  taken  off,  a  good  old  grand- 
mother was  seen ; 

And  when  the  talker  went  to  work,  his  qualities  were 
poor  and  mean. 


LXXXVII. 

"FACTA,    NON    V  E  R  B  A  ." 

PRAISE  not  thy  work,  but  let  thy  work  praise 
thee; 

For  deeds,  not  words,  make  each  man's  memory  stable. 
If  what  thou  dost  is  good,  its  good  all  men  will  see. 
Musk  by  its  smell  is  known,  not  by  its  label. 


LXXXVIII. 
PEDANTRY. 

A  HOLLOW  shell  and  solemn  words  do  not  below 
the  surface  reach ; 

There  is  no  meat  within  that  nut,  nor  any  soul  within 
that  speech. 


LXXXIX. 
BEGINNING    AND    END. 

^T  7"ATCH  well  two  points  in  life,  I  heard  a  wise 

*  •"  man  say,  — 

The  beginning  of  each  labor,  and  the  end  of  every 
play. 


xc. 

GRASS    AND    ROSES. 

T    LOOKED  where  the  roses  were  blooming, 
*-       They  stood  among  grasses  and  weeds ; 
I  said,  "  Where  such  beauties  are  growing, 
Why  surfer  these  paltry  weeds  ? " 

Weeping,  the  poor  things  faltered : 
"  We  have  neither  beauty  nor  bloom, 

We  are  grass  in  the  roses'  garden, 
But  the  Master  gives  us  room. 

"  Slaves  of  a  generous  Master, 

Born  from  a  world  above, 
We  came  to  this  place  in  his  wisdom, 

We  stay  to  this  hour  from  his  love. 

"  We  have  fed  his  humblest  creatur'es, 
We  have  served  him  truly  and  long ; 

He  gave  no  grace  to  our  features, 
We  have  neither  color  nor  song. 

"  Yet  He  who  has  made  the  flowers 

Placed  us  on  the  self-same  sod ; 
He  knows  our  reason  for  being,  — 

We  are  grass  in  the  garden  of  God." 


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